


The Sound of Breaking Ice

by CatalenaMara



Series: The Sound of Breaking Ice [1]
Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Animal death (fishing for food), Awesome Frigga (Marvel), Canon Divergence - Post-Avengers (2012), Domestic Violence, Evil Odin (Marvel), Heat Stroke, Implied/Referenced Torture, Internalized racism, Jotunn Loki (Marvel), Loki (Marvel) Angst, Loki Whump, M/M, Odin sucks as a husband too, Odin's A+ Parenting, Parent Frigga (Marvel), Post-Avengers (2012), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Thor (Marvel), Public Humiliation, Repressed Memories, Revenge Fantasies, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts, Thor (Marvel) is Not Stupid, Thor (Marvel) is a Good Bro, long game
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-12
Updated: 2018-11-11
Packaged: 2019-08-21 22:11:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 25
Words: 69,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16585181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CatalenaMara/pseuds/CatalenaMara
Summary: Post Avengers.  To appease the Jötnar King for what Loki did to their realm, Odin punishes Loki by taking his magic, humiliating him before the court, and forcing Loki back into his Jötunn body – not realizing and not caring that his punishment might have fatal consequences.  As Loki descends into despair and madness, tormented by vivid memories of his time in Thanos's hands, all appears hopeless.  But Loki is not entirely without options - even if at first they are not apparent.“I feared for her,” Thor started, then set his mouth shut.And suddenly Loki saw – Thor’s protective arms around Mother; Thor’s glared defiance at Odin.  He swallowed, and now his throat felt like it was filled with cracked glass.  “He would have hurt Mother,” he whispered.Thor went still.  Then he let go of Loki’s shoulders and stepped back.  Neither said a word.  A moment passed.  Another.  Loki had thought he had seen every expression Thor’s face was capable of making, but he had never seen that expression on Thor’s face before – a gut-deep, mortally wounded betrayal.  Not even in their confrontation on that Midgard mountain, nor on the Man of Iron’s Tower.Nor, he knew, was that expression directed at him.





	1. Vaka (Vigil)

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to emmatheslayer for her wonderful [art](https://emmatheslayer.livejournal.com/541083.html)!
> 
> Many thanks to my betas [](http://www.archiveofourown.org/users/Tenaya/profile)[**Tenaya**](http://www.archiveofourown.org/users/Tenaya/) and [](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Muriel_Perun)[](http://www.archiveofourown.org/users/Muriel_Perun/)**Muriel_Perun** for your invaluable advice and comments.
> 
> I went to see “The Dark World” late 2013 and fell right into Loki fandom. During the following months I read a lot of post-Avengers “Odin punishes Loki” stories and decided to write one of my own. I wrote a lot of scenes out of sequence, but when I tried to put it all together one character took an action that altered the entire course of the story. With nearly 45,000 words written (but not posted) I realized I had no idea how to finish this story. 
> 
> I want to thank [Muriel Perun](http://www.archiveofourown.org/users/Muriel_Perun/profile) for all the time she spent over these years discussing different ways this story could go and for her encouragement for me to keep writing it. I picked at it off and on over the next three years, sometimes not looking at it for months at a time.
> 
> At one point, I based a story called [”Flight”](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4639164) on one scene in this story. I’m calling it a side story, though it took on a life of its own and I made no attempt to integrate that story’s path with this one.
> 
> I finally decided the only way I was ever going to finish this story was commit to a challenge. I wound up taking out a lot of words and adding a lot more and now, after four years, it's finally done.
> 
> Because I originally wrote most of this story in 2014 while reading a lot of fic written in 2012 and 2013, when I started the rewrite I tried to keep the story true to the feel of a lot of Loki post-Avengers fic posted during that time. Some bits and pieces of post TA canon crept in when I thought it would help the story, but the final product is still very much canon-divergent to what we knew of the MCU at that time. 
> 
> I’ve always had a sequel in mind, and I hope that writing that story will be easier going than this one turned out to be.

The light never dimmed.  The silence was never broken.  Loki paced around the empty cell Thor had imprisoned him in, one more circuit of the hundred times hundred circuits he had made around the bright emptiness.  Immediately after his enforced return to Asgard, he’d been stripped of his outer coat and weighed down with chains.  At least the muzzle had been removed; the spellwork on the manacles and chains deemed more than sufficient security to keep him imprisoned.  His body, still battered, still healing from the green monster’s assault, craved rest, but his mind would not let him be still.  Furious thoughts of escape, of revenge, battled and raged in his mind, denying him any peace. 

And why should he rest?  They had provided him with no furnishings, and though he had often taken his ease on rough ground in hunts and in war, that was of his choice.  And so was this.  He would have none of them find him seated or lying on the floor, as if one broken and resigned to his fate.

And how could he rest, with these damnable manacles on his wrists, that damnable collar, holding back everything that he _was?_   The sensation of a thousand spiders crawling over his skin, a constant unsettling irritation, increased his fury.  His skin felt hot and too tight, and every time he fought to reclaim his sorcery a bright breathtaking pain like the sharp punch of thousands of needles etching his skin carved invisible runes over his entire body. 

The ensorcelled metal maddened him and he had to draw deep long breaths to prevent himself from striking the manacles against the walls, from tearing at the collar with his bare hands.  He would not have any of them see him as out of control, as too _sensitive_ to bear this minor punishment.

He knew much worse was to come.

Finally, a change.  He heard a door opening, and the sound of booted feet on stone pavement echoing in the emptiness around his isolated cell.  He stilled and lifted his chin as a phalanx of Einherjar trooped forward.

He leveled a contemptuous gaze on those who laid hands on him to attach long heavy chains to his collar and manacles.  He did not resist.  Terrible curses sprang to his lips but he swallowed them back and looked past them.  They were unworthy of his gaze or his words.  He, who had been their King, for however brief a time.

When they brought him out of the cell and up the long staircase he saw by the light from outside that it was late afternoon.  The Einherjar marched him along statue-lined corridors and down the long length of Odin’s vacant hall.   Rough hands forced him to both knees before Hliðskjálf, then forced his head down until all he saw was a ring of runes carved into the floor attesting to Odin’s glory.  He sneered in silence, tempted to spit on it, and decided he would leave that pleasant task for later.

“Do not move,” their captain warned him.  He heard them ring around him, felt the weight of their gaze pressing against his body, heard the sounds as they all shifted into guard position, their legs and feet surrounding him.  All became silent.  He kept his breathing low and even.

He knew it was going to be a long wait.  The inscribed runes on his manacled wrists whispered to him, spoke to him, laughed at him as they forced back his magic with a constant persistent painful pressure, sharper if he fought against it, still present if he attempted to rest. 

He burned with fury at this degrading treatment, that he who had been their king must now wait in impotent silence, remaining motionless, awaiting on Odin’s pleasure to speak to him and render judgment.

Toward dusk, members of the court came to mock.  He tried to blot out their words, but heard every single one of them.  _Traitor prince,_ and _silvertongued liar,_ and _ergi,_ and _cowardly trickster, not man enough to fight with_ real _weapons._ He recognized all of their voices and wished his daggers in his hands, challenging holmgang, taking their worthless lives, slaying them all.

The truth was worst of all.  Unchallengeable.  The words spat out: _Jötunn monster._   Sickness churned in his stomach, and blue flooded his vision, blue skin, his shattered vambrace, his shattered life.  Remnants of childhood nightmares tore and clawed at him; how, so different in so many other ways, he had been like them all in this: _Death to the enemy.  Death to the monsters!_

He clenched his fists at the sound of their voices and forced himself to stay still.  He heard the swish and rustling of their garments, the clank of their weapons, the tread of booted feet.  He smelled their perfume and sweat.  He caught glimpses of the hems of their garments in the gaps between his guards.  He remained absolutely still, while they walked by.  He knew them all by their voices without once having sight of their faces, and vowed he would have revenge on each and every one of them.  Hoskuldr, Njal, and Arnor would be the first he would find and avenge himself upon.

Everything halted when his guards were changed, seamlessly passing his chains from one set of hands to another.  He remained utterly still and silent through it all until the longing to move became an obsession.  Yet, he would not so much as twitch a finger, and not because of the certain punishment.  Though exhaustion dragged at his bones, he would not betray any weakness to any eyes.

Full night came and shadows engulfed the great hall.  The crowds had long since departed, to feasting or to their bedchambers.  All he could hear was the sound of the breathing of the guards, changed again just before the sky darkened.

Hours passed and finally his thoughts quieted and he allowed weariness to overcome him.  His mind drifted from image to image.  Thor, on the mountaintop.  Thor, on Stark’s tower.

Thor.  Thor.

Thor, standing outside his cell while the energy shield flickered between them, gazing in at him with a sorrowful expression on his stupid face.  Thor, sending the guards away so they could talk privately.

“But, my Prince,” one objected.

“I said ‘go’.”  Thor’s deep voice brooked no further argument, and the guards moved away.

Thor stared at him for a long time.  Loki met his gaze, chin high, not letting a trace of his pain or weariness show. 

“I have been thinking, brother.”

“A difficult task, I am sure.  And, I am not – ”

Thor broke in, “Yes.  You are.” 

Loki made a disgusted noise.  Thor’s earnest expression did not change.

 “I have thought of how we faced on Stark’s tower, and I begged you to leave off destruction.”

“And I put a knife in your side, yes, yes, by all means be tedious about it.” Loki gave him his most ‘I am set upon by fools’ expression.

Thor ignored the provocation.  “You looked around at what you had caused and you looked back and I saw regret in your face.”

“It must have been sunlight blinding you, for I felt no such thing.”  Loki gave him a knife-edged grin, but for an instant he was standing on that tower, a storm raging inside his head – love/hate, fear/anger, despair/resolve, the desperate need to escape/the sheer need to appear to follow the plan despite all and every cost, because the penalty for failure was so very much worse.

Loki clenched his hands.  Thor didn’t seem to have noticed his momentary distraction because he was still talking.  “And yes, you put a knife in my side.  You, who can throw a dagger from a great distance and see your chosen target fall dead; you, who knows exactly where the heart of any man lies; you, choosing that tiny blade, did me no damage at all.”

Loki leaned closer to the barrier and made his most insane face.  “Did I not send you hurtling to the earth to your most certain death?”

To his disappointment Thor gave him a measuring look, clearly unimpressed.  “You certainly showed no surprise upon beholding me on Stark’s Tower.  You made me most wroth, but I recall now you most certainly did see Mjolnir crack the glass and you knew that I would assuredly escape.” 

Loki gritted his teeth at this irritating – and perceptive – speech, and chose his next weapon before Thor could use it against him.  “And did I not slay the mortal in black before you?”

Thor’s eyes flashed with anger, but his voice remained calm.  “He was a warrior, weapon in hand, and he fell in honor in battle.   Your choice to murder him instead of facing him like a man – ” 

Loki snarled, but Thor was relentless.  “A dishonorable act, and a dishonorable battle, one you brought to a defenseless people.” 

“They were hardly defenseless.  Here I am.”  Loki lifted his hands, rattling his chains.

“My question stands. Why.” 

Loki looked down for a fraction of a second before catching himself and giving Thor a malicious smile, uncomfortably aware that he had slipped and shown weakness for one fraction of a second. 

Thor remained silent for a long moment, watching him.  Waiting.  “Who controls the would-be king?” Thor finally asked, and Loki jerked infinitesimally.  How he wished he could wrap his hands around Thor’s throat and stop his words with his hands!  Thor had always seen the straight path, and not what lay beyond or beneath or what wound around that path in labyrinthine circles.  Thor always saw the daylight, not the monsters in the dark.  How, then, had it come to this, that Thor could suddenly see other things only too well?  That Thor looked at the façade and then looked past it, considering what lay behind?

Loki arranged his face back into a sneer, eyes bright, and began crafting more lies.  Because he would never _never_ tell anything of what had happened to him to his oaf of a brother.  He would never tell _any_ of them how he had been broken into pieces, how he had been made into another’s thrall.

How he had knelt at another’s feet and sworn fealty and meant it – and yet even at that moment he’d known on some level he had been lying and that he would find some way to betray Thanos and escape. 

Loki, forsworn.  None would be surprised.  How they would laugh, to be proven right yet once again.

Thor’s words were true.He had no honor, he was the contemptible thing they all believed.A true warrior would have died battling the enemy; not finding ways to lie to him, the way he had lied a thousand times.  Not find cunning stories to tempt his enemy, all to save his own skin and escape, rather than battle to the death and to Valhalla.   

Not that he had been given the choice of battle and death.  He had used the only weapons left to him:  Words.  Words of the Tesseract, of Midgard, of the billions of fleeting lives to be had there. 

Words, words, words.  Lies, lies, lies.  So many he had even **believed** –

Feeling The Other’s imaginary touch on his shoulder again, Loki shuddered, a full body shiver, and clenched his hands so tightly his nails cut his palms.  He could hear echoes of Thor’s words – a true warrior would never have resorted to tricks.  Other echoes:  Odin’s many words of praise for Thor’s strength and valor – oh how the man he’d thought his father gave glory to his true son!  Any words Odin spared for Loki of his own achievements in battle a paltry afterthought.  Meager.  Slight.  _Worthless._

He dropped his hands to his sides, enraged by Thor’s unwavering gaze.  He had no tricks left.  He had nothing left, but the last few hours of his life.  He would face Odin’s ax as a would-be conqueror, not a weak pathetic fool who relied too much on his tricks.  And lost anyway.

“No one controls me, now or ever.  No one.” 

“Where did you get that army from?  How did you convince them to follow you?  Who was their master before?”  Thor’s questions came rapid-fire, projectile weapons that kept scoring hits.

Loki snarled.  “You think me incapable!  You think no one would follow me!”

Thor looked at him consideringly then started talking again, “You do not answer the questions.  As I said, I have been thinking.  You always had better war sense than you showed on Midgard.  You always knew how to plan in battle, how best to defeat the enemy.  You always saw the battle field entire, while I was hard put to see more then the foes around me.  Your tactics on Midgard were those of a child playing at battle, not a man familiar with war.  As for your strategy, I could see none.”

Loki kept himself absolutely still.  He had lied lied lied to Thanos, and he would lie just as much to Thor and all the others.  He had lied about his capabilities of opening wormholes large enough for Thanos’ starship; lied about the number of ships needed, lied about everything, lied to himself about his reasons. 

He’d already lost everything. But in this he had won – he had used strategy to lose, and taken down the Titan’s plan with him.

He would never tell Thor any of this.  He would never tell anyone of this. 

Thor waited him out again, a look of naked pleading in those eyes.  “I have tried to intercede with Father on your behalf.”

“Oh?”  Loki tilted his head a fraction further forward.  “And what did the _old man_ have to say?”

“He awaits your words.”

Loki barked a humorless laugh.  “I am already condemned then.”

“Will you not speak on your own behalf?”

Loki kept silent and widened the twisted grin on his face.

“What happened after you fell?”  There was an edge of desperation in Thor’s voice now, and his eyes showed unfamiliar fear.  “Loki, I would save you, plead your case with Father, but you must tell me!  If you wait until he pronounces judgment it will be too late.  How did you encounter the Chitauri?  Whose bidding did you serve?  Who gave you the Chitauri army?”

“You’re repeating yourself,” Loki said sing-song and gave him a mocking smile.

“Tell me!” Thor demanded.

Loki’s heart began racing at those words.  “I – served – no one,” he bit off.  He was dead already.  Why give any of them information so they could make further sport of him before the ax severed his head?  He didn’t want their pity.  He didn’t want their mockery – poor Loki, weak Loki; can’t handle a sword properly; willing to fall to his knees before Thanos, willing to say or do **_anything_** –

And still Thor wouldn’t stop talking.  “What happened after you fell?”

_Your brother threw you into an abyss –_

That **voice** , always whispering poison into his mind –

Black rage blazed.  He clung to his fury, a weapon against the feeling of infinite falling.  “Did any of you care?  **DID YOU?** Or were you feasting, celebrating the disappearance of the Jötunn cuckoo?  Did anyone search for me?”  At Thor’s pause, “And there is my answer.  You need say nothing.”

“We thought you dead.  We all mourned for you.”

Loki scoffed.  “So you said.  When did you become such a good liar?”

“When did you become such a poor one?”

Loki hissed, forgot the manacles, and tried to gesture, tried to summon power.  Agony clawed through him and he staggered, squeezing his eyes shut against the enormity of the pain, of the feedback of his own power against him.  He clenched his teeth to prevent himself from crying out.

When he opened his eyes Thor was looking at him with concern.  “I ask again, who controls the would-be king?”

He pulled in a deep breath and set his face back into an arrogant sneer.  “No one controls me, Thor.  Not ever.”  He considered how else to insult him, how to kick him in the teeth, turn his mind away from the things Loki would never tell him.  “Your mind is clouded.  It comes from consorting with mortals.  It comes from fucking them.  You went between your mortal’s thighs and became soft, not hard!”

Fury flamed in Thor‘s eyes.  “Vámr!” 

Despite himself, Loki recoiled at being called loathsome, the insult hitting like acid.  Thor’s expression changed from rage to neutrality, then to something painfully like understanding. 

“You lie to me yet,” Thor said.  “I remember your cleverness, searching for any weapon at hand to gain your ends.”

Loki pasted a mocking smile on his face.  The oaf had some perception after all.  A pity it hadn’t happened centuries ago instead of now when it was far, far too late.

Even more infuriating, Thor gave him a cocky smile.  “You see, I am getting better at remembering your tricks.”

Loki sucked in breath, and wished – not for the first time – that he too could summon lightning from the sky.  How he would love to see Thor reduced to a heap of ash on the floor before him!  He had found ancient books on the subject and studied them – to no avail.  Only a few were born to be stormbringers; it was an unlearnable gift. 

“Does nothing we shared before mean anything to you now, brother?”

So honest.  So open.  So vulnerable.  “You are _nothing_ to me, Thor.”  Those words stuck and tore on something sharp in his throat.  He shoved the sentiment down and told himself it was anger alone that made his voice rough and uneven.

Thor looked at him sorrowfully and Loki snorted at the hurt in his eyes, ignoring that tiny mewling thing inside him that insisted he know regret.  “Will you not tell me, brother, why you did what you did?”

Did he think repeating himself endlessly would get him a different answer?  Loki smiled brightly.  “I desired a throne.  I desired your death.”

“Liar,” Thor said, without anger or passion.  Thor stood regarding him in silence for a long moment.  Then, finally, defeat appeared in his eyes, and the look Thor gave him held more of resignation than hope.  “Do not repeat the same mistakes I made with Father.  I never had your skill with words.”

“’You are an old man and a fool,’” Loki quoted softly.

But Thor didn’t react to the acid in Loki’s words.  He looked at Loki sorrowfully.  “You used to think before you spoke or acted.  Unlike myself.  Remember your silver tongue.”

Loki laughed and kept laughing.  Thor’s shoulders slumped as if weary from a great battle.  He called for the guards and they returned.  Thor gave him one long hard look, then turned away from him and left without another word.


	2. Minni (Memory)

He came back to himself in the half-darkness, body tense and stiff from the long unmoving hours he’d spent kneeling before Hliðskjálf.  He’d stayed motionless for hours before, in the past, to spy on another, or in a hunt, but always of his own will.  Now, the enforced stillness galled, and as the hours went by the pressure on his knees, the stress in his bowed neck, became steadily more uncomfortable, the increasing pain grating on his nerves as much as the magic suppressors tormented his skin. 

Small sounds rang clearly.  The guards, breathing.  The clink of metal armor, the rub of leather, as the guards shifted in infinitesimal motions.  Somewhere outside a bird called to the dawn.  How long would Odin force him to remain here?  Another few hours?  Another entire day?

He wanted it done.  Over with.  Finished.  It was tedious, waiting for death, but the chains and manacles were inescapable.  He had tried.  Oh, he had tried.  But were he to escape…  He knew what awaited him in the dark.  But there were ways to evade Thanos; he had a thousand plans already in mind to escape The Other’s threatened fate.  If only he could find some way around these bonds.  He cursed the power of Odin’s spells; his magic was thoroughly suppressed, and he raged at knowing there was absolutely nothing he could do to escape his captivity.

He breathed in, out, in, out, and focused his mind elsewhere, letting random images flit through his mind. 

He and Thor, very young, perched on a parapet, surveying _their_ kingdom, making plans as to all they would do when they were both Kings.  Telling each other tales of their glorious future achievements. 

Sitting on a mountain ledge with Thor, the food they’d brought with them eaten, and nothing to do but watch the stars and nebulae while Loki told him fantastic tales of all the beings that dwelt in those stars and all the things they might do if they were to go adventuring out there together, leaving the Nine behind in favor of exploring the unknown.

Fireside.  Thor’s voice, a low growl like the rumble of distant thunder, describing all kinds of forbidden thoughts and desires.  He, down on his knees, lips opening to engulf his brother’s cock, shivered and reveled in the wickedness he had provoked.  Thor’s hands, one digging in his shoulder, one clasping his head, nails digging in as Loki opened his throat and sucked Thor all the way in.  Thor’s hands like iron holding him tight as he roared his pleasure and Loki’s cock, untouched, jerked and spilled across his belly. 

Licking his lips and looking up at Thor, who looked away, then shut his eyes.  But only for that first time.  What delight it had been, to teach all such wickedness to his brother.  What delight, to fulfill those desires.  And the words they spoke, forbidden shameful words of need.  Even more shameful, clinging to each other after, like lovers not brothers. 

Worst of all, speaking words of love.   _Ergi_ words.  None must know, and Thor had begged him to be discreet.  Loki’s magic had grown so much stronger, by necessity, so that he might cast spells to keep all they did secret –

Secret.  Secrets!  His breath was coming faster, heart pounding in his chest.  That moment with Odin in the Vault – memories suddenly unspooling so fast they blurred in his mind – Falling – LANDING –

_\--WE KNOW WHERE YOU ARE!_ The Other hissed into his ear. 

Heart racing, fear seizing his mind, he reared back upright, bringing his hands up defensively before him.

The guards roared.  Hands seized his hair, pulled his head back harshly.  For a moment The Other was there, leaning over him, hideous jaws smiling its rictus smile.  Its hand reached out –

“Don’t – move!” a guard shouted into his ear.  The Other’s image vanished –

A memory – a waking dream – Loki had time to realize, and then hard hands shoved him violently onto the floor.  Pain exploded as his forehead and nose impacted into the hard surface.  Something broke, and blood seeped from his nostrils.  Hands were holding him down and he struggled wildly.  More bodies fell onto him, pinning his arms and legs. 

A boot met his ribs, breaking bones that had healed bare hours before.  He hissed with pain, then bit through his lower lip rather than make another sound.  Blood spurted.  He forced himself to stillness again, hating the tremors in his body, hating the cowardly fear in his mind.   Heart pounding, half-believing The Other was still there, standing in front of him, laughing at his pain and fear.  Wanting to pull his head back and _look_ to assure him that nothing but Odin’s empty throne lay before him.  Forcing himself to focus on a slice of that damnable rune he’d stared at for hours and took satisfaction as his blood dripped down, obliterating Odin’s name.

The captain of the guard saying, in a self-satisfied tone, “The little _argr_ couldn’t wait it out.”

Laughter rang out.  More boots hit him.  Jeering comments filled the air.  He struggled for breath, but did not move, did not cry out, even as more blows rained down upon him.  This beating – and the humiliation of the insults poured down on him by those court nobles who had walked around him, mocking him – was absolute proof he was for the ax.  For Odin to sanction this abuse proved Thor wrong.  There was never a chance Odin would relent and show him mercy.

“Halt!” The head guard shouted.  He was hauled back to a kneeling position, his head forced downward so he was once again staring at the floor.  Through the pain, he heard them backing off into their positions.  Everything became silent again except for the sound of them breathing.   He stared at the floor and did not move and hated hated hated.  He knew all their voices.  He knew **_all_** their names. 

Every slight, every insult anyone had ever spoken to him began running through his mind.  He brought each face to his memory and spent some time picturing them all suffering horrible tortures and dying in dishonor.  Could he find some way to shame them all, bring them with him to Helheim? 

He ground his teeth in fury and tried to think of something else, but the insults kept ringing in his mind, and at any rate it was better than thinking of—

Bones set themselves and knitted.  Bruises faded.  His body ached.  The guards changed, and changed again.  Soon dawn would come again.  Would they return again, the fools, the gawkers and the mockers?  How long did Odin intend to drag this out?  But when he finally came…

Then, he would be free.  Free of everything.  Would Helheim be as grey and boring as all said it would be?  Could he find ways to gain power there?  Or would he be damned to tedium and mediocrity and the company of fools, no doubt appearing as rotting corpses?

The sky lightened.  A few hours – or less – left of his life.  Weary of futile fantasies of revenge, he allowed his mind to go wandering again.  Images of his moth—of Frigga, of Thor drifted in, and this time he did not fight or deny them.  He did not want to think of either of them; their disappointment in him, their anger.  Frigga had visited him briefly when he’d first been brought back to Asgard, but barely had she given him greetings, her eyes overbright, when a messenger summoned her away.  A flash of memory crossed his mind – Mother’s garden, filled with dragonflies and butterflies and bees, small colorful birds of many kinds.  As a child he’d been enthralled by them all. 

He had been just a few centuries old when he had been seized with the obsession of flying.  He had spent tens of decades working out how to shift into bird form, consulting every volume in the library which discussed shapeshifting and trying endless experiments, some of which had turned out badly in falls when changed limbs did not work properly.  Mother had scolded him, mended his hurts, and gave him good advice once he’d confessed this desire to her.  After that, with the aid of the teaching she had given him, small forms had come easily, rodents and cats and walking insects.  Anything that walked on legs was easy!

But the transition to wings!  His treacherous arms did not want to let go of their shape so drastically; they clung to their earthbound function, far happier to form into paws or the delicate forms of insect legs and tread on flooring and earth than expand and alter and accept hollow bones and feathers and the freedom of the air.

He had spent hours, days, weeks, watching birds, studying their every motion, and then using spells to place his mind _elsewhere_ , as if he were in the bird itself, as if he _were_ the bird itself.

Success, finally, dizzying, ecstatic.  So free!  There, the sight of the palace, of Asgard itself, in miniature below him, as he flew free on the wind.  Dragonfly, swallow, magpie, raven.  He had learned centuries ago how to transform himself into the smaller creatures of the air.  He couldn’t work out yet how to become a rokh or a dragon.  Though he could make himself smaller, the size differential too great between his body and those of larger creatures.  However, given enough centuries he had been sure he would achieve that as well.

That would never happen now.

But then - he had flown free and wild many times, testing his new forms, intoxicated with air and light and freedom.

And so he had shown Thor by transforming into a magpie and soaring through the sky.  And there was Thor on the ground below, his face filled with wonder and awe and, yes, envy, that Loki had accomplished this.  That Loki could do something so marvelous.  That Loki could do something Thor could not.  That Loki had, for once, bested him.

Savoring the envy in Thor’s eyes, he dived into showy plunges and ascents and whirls, and Thor’s eyes tracked his every move. 

Triumphant, he had landed lightly on the ground below, already beginning to assume his own form while still airborne.  His feet touched the ground, and feathers and wings fluttered and absorbed back into his arm, a few stray feathers floating free.

Thor picked up a feather and held it teasingly out.  Loki grabbed for it and they tussled.  Grappling, their faces and bodies close.  Thor went quiet and rubbed the feather along Loki’s face.  Loki shivered at the sensation, his lips parting.  Thor held it close to his skin for another moment, eyes heated with lust.  Loki closed his hand over Thor’s.  Thor released the feather, and Loki snatched it and hid it in his clothing. 

Thor’s face was an inch away from his own.  Their lips met, and he opened his mouth further to Thor’s kiss, which quickly deepened.  Loki’s cock fired with hard need and he ground against Thor’s groin, eagerly seeking newly discovered sensation, eager to do again what they had been doing for only a short year now.  Recently discovered, but no surprise; they’d been wanting each other for a long time before they’d acted upon it.  One of Thor’s hands held his head in place; he slid the other between their bodies, groping for Loki’s hard erection…

Loki opened his eyes and focused on the hard floor beneath him, at the blood-obscured rune.  This was not the time to get an erection.  And yet, how disrespectful it would be, how funny it would be, to stand before the All-Father, cock hard in one last act of defiance.

All he had to do to lose it was think about what happened, bare weeks later.  Thor was given Mjolnir, and suddenly his brother had the freedom of the air, and control of the weather as well, and he was once again one step behind, his own ability to fly so much _less,_ not equal at all to Thor in that, or anything else that mattered. 

But he remembered the freedom now.  Remembered the enjoyment he felt in calling out taunts and insults to Huginn and Muninn, daring them to chase, tempting them away from their assigned tasks.

Why had he ever returned?  There were so many other places he could have gone to, before he himself closed all the doors.  If he had flown away, if he had left Asgard behind, during all the many years he had had the chance, he would never have gone to Jotunheim.  He need never have known the truth.  Never have known of the loathsome vámr monster that lay beneath his skin.  Never have had transformation forced upon him, rather than it happen of his own will.

Never learned the truth.  Been happy in the lies.  Content to be a deluded fool.

Why had he ever returned?  Now, he would be happy to merge with the air itself.

Light increased.  People walked around him, making mocking comments.  He knew all of them already.  Everything had already been said; they merely kept repeating themselves.  He fantasized about killing them all, Odin’s throne room washed with blood, so much blood no gold would shine through.  Could the Bifrost be turned onto Asgard itself?  Now _there_ was a pleasant thought.

He remained still, unmoving.  The light got brighter, the room perceptibly warmer as, judging from the sound, more and more people crowded into the hall and stayed.

Good.  It would not be much longer now.

He could hear the old man’s booted feet approach the throne, ascend the stairs.  He heard his moth—Frigga’s footsteps, Thor’s beside hers, as they entered the chamber, as they took their places on the wide steps leading to the throne, several steps lower than the throne.

Even knowing that the old man was there, the shockwave that rang through the building as Gungnir hit the floor startled him.  He nearly jerked his head up, but managed to hold himself still, heart juddering in his chest.  He forced himself to breathe evenly.  And waited.

Soon now.  Soon.  The ax.  And after –

_You’ll never touch me again.  And when Thanos comes for me and finds me not may he take all your treasures; may he burn Asgard to the ground as punishment when he learns you have stolen his revenge!_

“Bring him to his feet.”  Odin’s voice was as cold as Jotunheim air.  Hard hands dug beneath his armpits and yanked him upright.  Chains rattled and swung and stilled.  He found his footing quickly and did not stumble, anticipating and compensating for the final shove the guards gave him, stepping forward as they did so, then standing as straight as a prince and a warrior should.  He couldn’t resist a quick glance to the side, where Frigga and Thor stood.  Both were watching him with controlled expressions, Frigga’s more so, but he saw fear in both of their eyes.

He tilted his face up and met Odin’s harsh gaze with a mocking smile.  How many times had he stood before Odin as a child, faced Odin’s corrosive disappointment in him, awaiting punishment for talking Thor into some wild and dangerous quest?  Odin never seemed to punish Thor for instigating the same sort of escapades, or if he did the penalty was easily paid, easily forgotten.  How many times had Odin made him feel small, worthless, wrong?  How many times had Odin pronounced his punishment?

Yet one more time.  The last.


	3. Dómr (Judgment)

“Loki, son of Laufey,” Odin began, and Loki pulled in breath through his nose and avoided flinching.

There was murmuring and shuffling among the court, and Odin banged Gungnir down again.  “Silence!  Let none speak until judgment is passed.”  He turned the force of his one-eyed glare back to Loki.   “I took you in as my own son and you have repaid Asgard with your treachery.  You let Jötunn warriors access to the Vault, deceiving them into thinking they might reclaim the Casket of Ancient Winters.  You assaulted our Guardian and kept him from his post.  You caused a valuable artifact to be destroyed on Midgard; it has taken our sorcerers much work to replace the Destroyer.  You repeated your treachery by luring your sire into my bedchamber with the promise he could murder me in my sleep.  You then slew him where he stood.  Kin-Slayer.  King-killer.”

No one dared break Odin’s command for silence, but there was a sudden sound of indrawn breaths from all parts of the chamber.

Odin fixed Loki with an intense one-eyed stare.  “Have you anything to say for yourself?”

Loki smirked.  “I slew the enemy.  Or were those stories you told us of all the Jötnar you slew meant to display your glory only?”

Frigga shot him a pleading look, while Thor’s face was marked with sorrow and a disappointed fury.

Odin’s voice grew angrier.  “I faced the enemy in honorable battle, not as a deceitful conniving coward.”

Loki’s stomach clenched at the insult and at the way the court murmured at the word; the word still harsh and stinging despite his having heard it from many men for all these many years.  But never once from his – the King.

Odin went on, “After your contemptible deeds in my chamber, you then chose the lowest form of battle.  You sought to destroy an entire realm by turning the force of the Bifrost upon it.  You demonstrated before all the Realms that you do not understand the difference between honorable battle and despicable cowardice.”

“I did it to ensure peace – which is what you yourself wanted!  Or were all the words you screamed at Thor about the horrors of war merely lies?  What better peace, than the enemy utterly defeated.  Did not your own father do the same?  Did he not destroy the Dark Elves – every last one?  Saved us from that menace forever?  I would have done what you did not.”

Odin’s fingers curled more tightly around Gungnir.  “I asked to hear your words, and you have given them to me.  By causing the destruction of the Bifrost you have laid all the realms open to marauders.  By your actions, your treachery and deceit, you bring chaos upon us all.  Then, your final act of cowardice, choosing your own death rather than accepting a warrior’s fate.”

Odin’s words like knives, flaying his skin, leaving every part of him exposed, in agony, exploding with rage and sorrow and a sick twist of shame.  _Father,_ something still inside him wanted to say.  _Father, let me explain--_

He hadn’t realized there was anything left inside him to kill. 

_And, suddenly, the throne room was gone and he was hanging in space, looking up past Thor at his father’s face, his own hand tight around one end of Gungnir, Thor’s hand tight around the other.  “No, Loki.”_

_Letting go.  The cold.  The –_

The memory vanished.  He sucked in breath, and put the smirk back on his face, skin feeling too tight to contain his emotions.  “I would have saved us all.  There would have been no more war, no more threat of war.”

“And now all distrust us, because of **_your_** treacherous act.”

“Have you not always sought and enjoyed the fear those in other realms have of your power?”  Frigga made the tiniest of warning sounds, and rage flashed across Odin’s face.  Loki went on, “You want the realms groveling at your feet—”

**_“Silence!”_** Odin roared.

Loki gave him a bright-eyed challenging look.

The old man kept his own silence for a moment, staring him down, but Loki did not look away.

Odin’s eyes glowed with fierce anger.  “You showed no honor in your actions on Midgard.  They are inferior beings, best left alone to their petty quarrels.  You had no cause to smite them down or lay destruction to their dwellings.  We departed their realm centuries ago – ”

“ – Not true,” he interrupted, and a few less-controlled courtiers let out audible gasps.  “You sent Thor there, after all.  Does _Thor_ agree with you?”  He shot a side-gaze to his not-brother’s burning eyes.  Thor’s hand was clenched as if Mjolnir were in his grip.    “ _Thor_ seems to have quite an interest in those mortals.  Thanks to **_you_**.”

Odin went on as if he hadn’t spoken.  “You had no right to treat with those Chitauri scum, to make alliances of your own accord.”  Loki dug his nails into his palms, Chitauri whispers chittering in his ears, and remained silent.  “Your actions are those of a coward and a deceiver, not those of a warrior.  Not those of a man.  Not those of anyone who claims honor.   What say you to this list of your crimes?” 

“I was the rightful King, when you were in the Odinsleep, and as such could choose my actions.  If it weren’t for the _traitors_ in your hall I would have succeeded – and when you awoke I would have handed you a great victory.  _You_ condemned me to what followed by letting me **FALL**!” he roared.

“Your own words condemn **you**.”  Odin’s gaze grew impossibly harder.  “King Helblindi has demanded reparation.   There are those who have begged for mercy…”  He paused, and glanced to where Frigga and Thor stood, her eyes filled with fear, Thor’s face grim.  “I have chosen to grant it.  Your head will not adorn a pike this day.” 

Loki froze, the smirk on his face becoming a rictus, Odin’s words clanging through his head.  _He was not to die?  But what --_

Odin was still speaking.  “But the Jötnar demand **must** be satisfied.  They first demanded death for the traitor prince who would destroy his own realm.”

“ _My_ **realm**!  A realm I set foot on **_once_?**  I did it for **_my_** realm – for **Asgard**!”

Odin kept talking.  “They will settle for no less than what I now decree and that your punishment be witnessed by all the court and witnessed by the Jötnar even now through their scryers as aided by our _spækona_.  You have made your choices, Loki.  Here, now, is your condemnation.”  Odin’s words rang out in every corner of the vast hall.  “I disown you.  You are no longer Prince of Asgard, and none shall regard you as such.”  Someone made a barely-audible satisfied sound.

Odin raised Gungnir.  “I take away your magic.” He thrust the spear out, aiming directly at him.  Gungnir flared with light.  The energy bolt slammed against him.  He howled, limbs contorting, spine bowing, his determination to remain silent shredded instantly as pure agony shot through him, exploding inside his body, seeking out and scouring every cell with acid.

The wave receded, returned with a vicious suddenness as the runes now dug into his skin stabbed blades through every part of his body.  There was a vast tearing, ripping, gouging sensation.  Wordless cries tore from him, then faded to agonized gasps.

Suddenly everything went dim.  He blinked then widened his eyes against the sudden loss of sight.  Where had the light gone?  The hall was suddenly as dark as if he were under a midnight Midgardian sky with no fire to illuminate the darkness.

Then his peripheral vision fell away.  He blinked again and again, his vision now a long featureless tunnel with only a tiny bit at the end, just a small portion of the throne and one of Odin’s hands, blurred but still visible to his eyes.   

Sound dropped away.  Gone were the rustlings and the sound of the courtiers breathing, leaving nothing but dead silence.  Terrified, he struggled to move, struggled to rub his hands against each other, but felt nothing but numb skin.  He raised one hand hesitantly to touch his face, felt pressure but no touch.  He looked at his hands, now able to see only one complete, and clenched his nails into the palms, gouging.  He blinked again, saw dimly that blood had begun to flow, but he felt only the most minor sting. 

The air, formerly redolent of mingled perfumes from the crowd and the flower-scented air from outside, suddenly smelled like the deadness of a long-abandoned room. 

Another tidal wave struck and he nearly vomited as everything reversed and sharpened.  Light stabbed at his eyes; he squeezed them shut.  He forced his eyes open again, blinked, and saw and saw and **_saw_**.  Everything was sharply highlighted.  Every pore on every face was magnified, the twisted shapes of every curled lip, every formerly perfect tooth in bright contrast to the gums suddenly revealing flaws.  He knew their faces, but they seemed like monstrous masks meant to entertain children, not people he knew.

Mother’s face was stricken, eyes bright with fear and sorrow.  She’d half reached out one hand to him, he could see every nail as if he were an artist drawing a representation in ink.  There, Fandral, grinning sadistically at him, every hair on his mustache a separate thing.  There, Thor, grim-faced and angry, and was that horror in his eyes?

He shut his eyes against the monsters around him.  The tiniest sound was suddenly too painful to bear; he pressed his hands to his ears and groaned at the agony of the tiny cuts in his palms, so inconsequential before, now lined with acid; his nearly-healed ribs now bands of fire.  Gasping for breath he choked at the intolerable overwhelming stink of perfume and flowers.  He shuddered and struggled to breathe and clawed at his throat and snatched his hands away at the fresh pain.  He was making sounds and he tried to stop, tried to stay still, tried to pull back in his mind, pull **away**.  He could do this.  He could bear this.  He could be still and silent.

He took one breath.  Another.  Another.  Felt the way the air filled all the spaces in his lungs, felt it withdraw again as he breathed it out.  Again.  Again, until the stench receded and the roaring sounds in the chamber muted themselves to something approaching normal, and he could open his eyes without feeling they were being stabbed with white-hot needles.

He suddenly realized he was curled on one side, huddled on the floor and when he looked to either side Odin’s highest-ranking courtiers were looking back, mockery and sadism glinting from hundreds of eyes.  How long had he been writhing on the floor while they all made sport of him?

He pulled himself to a seated position, put his hands around his knees.  The chains rattled around him, falling heavily against his legs, pulling against the manacles heavy on his wrists.  He’d intended to stand, but his head was swimming.  Better to sit still rather than stand and immediately pass out.

People tittered, then guffawed, the sound so loud in his ears it was like the roaring of great beasts.  He resisted the temptation to clap his hands to his ears, head pounding with every gust of sound.  Still, Odin stood with Gungnir and did nothing to stop the laughter. 

He hated – **hated** with a pure bright intensity so huge he felt he’d explode.  He hated until there was nothing of Loki left, and yet they still laughed.  He hated because what made him Loki had been ripped away and the loss was so huge and so profound not even his skin felt real, not even the shape of his knees beneath his hands felt natural, felt part of him.

“Loki, stand!”  Odin’s voice rang out.

He forced himself to his feet before the guards could drag him up.  The room spun around him.  Swaying, he scored his palms again with his nails and focused on the pain until his head stopped spinning.  He would not pass out.  He stood and waited and waited while all around laughter still rang.  And slowly, slowly, vision and sound and touch and smell returned to something approximating normal.  But inside everything was strange, everything was wrong, and he wanted to scream at the absence of all he had ever been.

Odin brought Gungnir again and all were silent.

“Loki Laufeyson,” Odin said.  “I have taken your power, as King Helblindi demanded.  Now here is the judgment for what Asgard demands.”


	4. Spilla (Destroy, Spoil)

Still reeling from the loss of his magic, he realized with horror Odin had not spoken all of his sentence.  The court went dead silent, but he could see the eager anticipation on their avid faces, could see the way they looked at him, waiting for entertainment, waiting for more, for his blood.

“I take away this glamour I once laid upon you.  I condemn you to your natural form so that you may fully understand the consequences of your deeds, that, if fulfilled, would never have slain ALL of your kind.  Because there would have been one Jötunn still alive – yourself.”

Frigga’s gasp sounded loudly in the silence.  She took a half step-forward.  “My King, can you not reconsider?”  Odin swung toward her, and she lifted her chin, fear in her eyes.  “Can you not wait?  Allow him to recover from the first portion of your punishment before imposing another?  Can you not show him this small mercy?”

“Silence!” Odin roared, bringing his arm up and around to aim Gungnir directly at her. 

“ ** _Father, no_**!” Loki roared and threw himself toward Odin, surging against his chains.   Frigga’s eyes went huge, her mouth opened wide but before she said another word Thor took a step forward, instinctively lifting his hand for Mjolnir, which was not there.  Frigga placed her hand on top of Thor’s, her eyes still enormous as she stared in shock at the old man.

Strength Loki thought entirely gone galvanized him as he tried to close the gap between him and his mother, reaching to wrest the spear from Odin’s hand, even as the guards holding his chains hauled him back.   He stretched his arms as far as possible but an impossible distance separated them.   Odin snarled at him then turned his head back to Frigga.  But she was no longer standing there; Thor had shoved her behind his back and had thrust his hands out protectively, shock and anger on his face.

Loki’s chains pulled taut and he stumbled, fell forward a few feet short of the throne steps.  He stopped with a bone-shaking jerk, held for an instant in mid-air by the chains.  The chains slackened and he crashed to his knees on the floor.  Guards piled on top of him.   Struggling ferociously, he threw two of them off and scrabbled again, trying to move forward, but more guards seized him, held him down.  The chains went taut again and he was pulled up by his chained wrists to his feet by the guards, their hard fists smashing into his sides and belly.  Breath was knocked out of him and when they stepped back he dropped to his knees, his hair veiling his face.

The head Einherjar shouted a command, and the guards immobilized him.  One yanked his hair, pulling his head back.  Odin was watching him, a trace of satisfaction crossing his face for a moment, then a hard coldness set back in again.  Odin turned his attention back to Frigga and Thor.

Frigga set one hand on Thor’s shoulder, then stepped around him.  Thor dropped his hands but kept his hot gaze on Odin, glaring at him as if he had never seen him before.  Frigga walked forward, stopped, her expression set and hard, and met Odin’s wrathful gaze. 

Odin waited one long tense moment, then lowered Gungnir.  He stared down at his spear a second longer, face still void of expression.  When he met Frigga’s eyes again and spoke his voice was deceptively calm.  “I am showing him mercy, as you desired me to when you spoke on his behalf.  It is for you I grant his life, but that is all.  He must pay for his treachery.  This is his punishment.  I have so decreed it.”

Frigga slumped a fraction, straightened her shoulders, bowed her head and stepped back.  Thor put a protective arm around her, but she gave a subtle shake of her head and he dropped his arm to his side. 

“Loki,” Odin said again, and there was a bitter tone of weariness in his voice. 

Loki’s guards grabbed him and yanked him to his feet again.  He turned his gaze to Frigga and Thor.  Both of them were looking at him with anguish in their eyes, and he wished desperately that they would turn away from him before he was stripped worse than naked before them.  He looked back to the King – and remembered with disgust how bare moments ago he had called the man “Father”.  Would that he could spit the filth of that word back out of his mouth! 

Odin raised Gungnir.  “Let all see the lying viper for what he is.”

“And what of your lies to me?” Loki shouted, forcing himself not to struggle in the iron grip of the guards.  “What of your own treachery and deceit?  Why call me son when I was your political pawn all along?”

“Stand back,” Odin said to the Einherjar.  Their hands withdrew their hold on him and he heard them move back and away.  Loki forced himself to stand straight despite the pain from the beating, despite the trembling in his limbs, his body still in shock from the strangeness of the absence of the magical energies that had always filled him.  He arranged his face into an expression of defiance and hate.

Odin thrust Gungnir toward him and a wave of energy cocooned him, trapping him, holding him utterly still.  All he could do was look straight into the eyes of the man who had pretended to be his father for all these years.  He saw nothing else, but felt it all:  the _change_ , bone deep and further, every cell of his body _shifting_ , a shiver of strangeness that whispered to him seductively that this was all somehow _right_ , somehow _true.  This is who you **are.**_

No!  He violently rejected that voice, that lying part of himself.  But it had already begun washing over and through him, the strange sensation creeping across his skin and the cold penetrating to his bones.  He had felt this before, on Jotunheim, in the Vault, and hated it; hated and denied it.  He had felt it again on the Bifrost when he had confronted Heimdall, and then he himself had chosen it and had been prepared for it.  But that had been like a glamour atop a glamour; temporary – not **_him_** at all ** _._** But **here** , in the presence of hundreds of others who now would have far more reason to hate him than they ever had before, here his skin chilled and kept getting colder.  He kept his gaze on Odin’s eye, hating him with everything he was, not daring to look elsewhere, not daring to look at his own skin.

People were murmuring, shouting, gasping.  Odin did nothing to silence them, and did not attempt to look away from Loki’s accusing gaze.  Odin’s face, harsh and stern, filled all of his vision as the sensation of ice encompassed his skin, sank through his bones, and was suddenly complete.

A heat wave suddenly struck him, his breath stuck in his throat against the sudden fire in his lungs.  Then something shifted inside, accommodated, adjusted, and the sensation was gone.

His vision blurred and shifted to a different color spectrum.  He blinked, blinked again.  Everything was so much brighter, painfully so.  His irritated eyes began watering and he tried to blink the tears away, lest anyone think him weeping.   All colors had changed, in what way he could not tell, for everything still looked natural if overbright; the colors greyed out, somehow shifted _toward_ each other, the gold of the throne acquiring a type of tarnish, the splendid walls now muddied.

He drew in an enormous gasping breath, as if he’d been drowning and only now realized it, and realized he was free to move.  He shifted his hands, tried to stop himself from moving further, and failed.

And lifted his –

Monstrous –

Blue hands –

He clenched them, thrust them back to his sides.  Crack!  Startled, he lifted his arms again.  The manacles surrounding his wrists shattered in frozen pieces and clattered to the floor.  The leather of his court clothing broke apart and fell away from his body, bits of frozen boot leather following, leaving him clothed in only a soft sleeveless tunic and breeches, and they felt stiff and unnatural against his skin.  Instinctively, he called his magic, and staggered with dizziness when nothing responded.

He’d controlled the change before – on the Bifrost –

Only this was imposed.  Not his choice. 

There were sounds around him.  What were they?  Still in shock he stared at the blue of his hands – his suddenly bare midnight blue arms, branded with those grotesque serpentine markings.  Then, lower – he stared blankly at his exposed lower legs, his naked feet; blue everywhere, those hideous lines snaking around his limbs.  He bit his tongue till it bled to avoid making a sound, to hold back the rising tide of nausea in his throat.

The sounds, ringing in his ears.  Shouts of surprise and horror.  Odin’s court, behind him.  He could not see their faces. 

Someone shouted, “Kill it!” and Odin brought Gungnir down again.

This time the silence was absolute – not even the sounds of slightly shifting footsteps marred the dead quiet in the great hall.

Loki dragged his gaze from the horror of his skin.  He looked up and found the King looking at the metal and leather and cloth debris surrounding him.  Loki glanced around, and caught Thor’s gaze staring in shock at his face; saw Frigga, her body tight with tension and fear.  Looked back at Thor who met his eyes with a troubled gaze, horror and fascination warring on his face.

“Laufeyson!” Odin roared, and when he had Loki’s full attention, he held his gaze for several long seconds.

Loki affected the proud posture of a prince, walling off the humiliation and nausea and a treacherous trembling gathering in his every limb, and waited, pretending boredom, for what else could Odin do?

And yet again Odin started speaking.  He hadn’t finished after all, and Loki wondered what else he still possessed that Odin could possibly take.

Odin’s voice, implacable, continued.  “You are hereby confined to such areas of the palace as I give you leave to go, and are warded from taking one step further.”

Well, _that_ was unexpected; much better than the deep and foul dungeon he had anticipated being confined in once he learned he was not for the ax.  Despite everything, once he recovered his strength – he refused to think _if_ – with this sort of freedom it was only a matter of time before he figured out an escape route. 

Odin was still talking. Would he never shut up?  He leaned back a bit, keeping the bored expression on his face – then wondered if expressions could even interpreted on Jötnar faces?  Then he remembered he’d been able to read Laufey’s eagerness to possess the Casket of Ancient Winters well enough.

Odin had paused.  He gave Loki a tiny, nasty smile.  “That you might harm none, I take away your natural abilities of defense as well.” 

_What did that mean?  Oh yes, the ice-spears._ He wasn’t thinking clearly, he decided; Odin’s meaning was entirely obvious.

“All of this until such time as I, and I alone, decide otherwise.”  Odin brought Gungnir down, and the hall rang with his pronouncement.

Finally.  Done.  Loki saw Frigga sway, and Thor holding her tightly upright.

Odin aimed Gungnir directly at him.  Again.

Raw power ripped through him, haloing him in sparks of blue and gold and red.  Heat flared, as if he’d suddenly been shoved too close to a fireplace, an inferno blazing against his skin and the brightness of the room stabbed his eyes. 

He might have screamed.  He might have fallen.  It was an eternity of agony, being burned alive.

And then – gone.  The pain.  But not the heat.

He heard voices – shouting – yelling –

He realized he had collapsed to the floor again, and when he tried to catch his breath heated air seared his throat and lungs.  He panted, took in tiny, shallow breaths, held them inside for an aching length of time.  Breathed in.  Out.  In.  Out.  And when finally he knew he could stand without falling, the world spinning around him, he staggered drunkenly to his feet. 

He was shaking all over.  Not trusting himself to words, he sketched a mocking bow.  Odin’s eyes widened with fury, and he found he was still able to smirk.

He found his voice, though it sounded like the rasp of rusty metal parts scraping together.  “You brought me within your halls, All-Father.  Does the court approve your choice of enemy for your son?”

The room fell to complete silence.

“We were not always enemies with the Jötnar.” Odin was holding himself as he did when presiding over his Council, voice patient now, almost lecturing.  “I had hoped to find a lasting peace with them once again, and yes, you were to be part of that.  I regret nothing except the poor choice I made when I took you from where your own kind had abandoned you.  They clearly had reason to do so.  Now, your own actions have provided all the proof any would need of your inherent treachery.  Your actions have been revealed to all.  All know how you have repeatedly betrayed our trust.  All know you now for what you are.  Disloyal.  Coward.  Traitor.  _Nithing_.”

Loki jerked at the condemnation.  “And I know you for what you are.  Liar.  Thief.  False father.”

Odin roared in rage.  “Be grateful for your life.  I may yet decide to end it.”

“Oh, I am sure your good and loyal subjects will take that task as their own.  Shall they tear me apart now?  Rid you of the monster you clasped to your breast?”

Odin brought Gungnir down again.  “I alone control your fate.  None shall touch you.  I so order it!”  The hall was dead quiet.  Odin looked down at him out of his ice blue eye.  “Have a care with your behavior; I can take away all freedom as well and have you confined to the lowest dungeon.”  He shouted to the Einherjar.  “Take him to his chambers!”

The guards approached him from either side.  He turned and strode ahead of them, teeth gritted against the pain of the oven-hot floor against his bare feet, against the burn of the air in his lungs, but he did not miss a stride or waver or falter, not once.  People parted before him, shrinking back against the golden walls as if the very air he breathed might contaminate them.  He kept his head high, looking directly ahead, trying to see as little of his skin as possible, as he made his way down the endless length of the great hall and turned into the outer corridor.

Light stabbed at his eyes and hot gusts of breeze struck his skin, as blazing as winds from Surtr’s realm.  He gritted his teeth and reminded himself he had survived Muspelheim more than once.  He could do so again.  It was the shock of the unexpected heat, the searingly intense light, that was all.  He was strong.  The old man would not destroy him.

He walked ahead of the guards through the twists and turns of palace corridors and flights of stairs, all the way up to his chambers.

One guard opened his door when they arrived, the rest staying behind him.  He walked into his room, ignoring the guard, and kept walking until he heard the door shut behind him.

Alone now, pain and exhaustion crowded in.  He staggered, one foot drunkenly following another, across his floor which now seemed like a vast plain and he a dying man traversing it.  Years ago, they’d fought a terrible battle on Muspelheim.  The surging lava flows, directed by Surtr’s demons, the steam blasting through overheated air, the ground itself like coals beneath their feet, had nearly felled them all and had it not been for his protective shield spells they would all have perished.  Of course none had thought to thank him when they returned to Asgard.  As it was, many had died, as much from the heat as their wounds, the burning air sapping their strength and making them clumsy, vulnerable to Surtr’s warriors.  It had been such relief, when they returned to the fresh cool air of Asgard, victorious, despite their massive losses, and yet none had celebrated that victory.  There had been far too many boats set aflame and sent off world’s edge, and though families took comfort in their vision of their heroes in Valhalla, still the widows and orphans and friends left behind mourned.

This heat – was just as bad. And there would be no return trip from a distant battle, no way to put this torment behind him. 

Halfway across his sitting room the spinning in his head intensified.  Black spots floated across his vision, and then crowded out all sight.  He collapsed to the floor, gasping in the too-hot air, and then the pain - and everything else – was gone.


	5. Rifa (Rip, tear)

He came to some hours later – he had no sense of the time passing – and found he had crawled to a corner of his bath chamber and had lain down on the tiles.  He was naked, and he had a vague memory of tearing off his remaining clothing at some point.  A terrible stench came from his sitting room, along with the pure scent of something he desperately needed.

The tiles were not cool, as he expected them to be, but rather felt warm and uncomfortable beneath his skin.  A headache flared from the dissonance in sensory expectation. 

He dragged himself upright.  Put one foot in front of the other.  Walked, as if he were a tiny child, barely past the days of crawling on the floor.  One more step, though everything in him still rang in shock from the loss of his magic and a bone deep exhaustion dragged at his limbs.  One more step, though the heat was relentless, his mouth desert-dry, and his skin cracking and rough. 

One more step, and he was in his sitting room.  Torn remnants of whatever had remained of his clothing after his forced transformation were strewn halfway through the room.  Glancing down, he caught glimpses of blue – of his skin - and squeezed his burning eyes shut, but they flew open again as he started gagging at the smell in the room.

The terrible stench came from a tray, placed on a table just inside his sitting chamber.  A platter, filled with food, and the sight of it, the rancid smell of cooked meat and fish and the poison smell of bread and fruit felt like rot in his lungs, doubling the nausea.  But beside the food he saw a pitcher and smelled pure clear water. 

Breathing through his mouth he approached, grabbed the pitcher, and backed away, forgetting to take the goblet beside it.   He didn’t go back for it, but put the pitcher to his lips and gulped it down, feeling utter relief as he drank and drank and drank the warm water until the pitcher was dry.  Had anything ever been more beautiful than pure water?  All the while he kept backing further away from the terrible smell of the food on the tray until he was standing at the entry to his bath chamber.

He paused and shouted for a servant to come take the tray away, then withdrew entirely to his bath chamber, where he refilled the water from the tap and drank the water down again, a bit more slowly, until he had drained every drop.  He spent several long minutes just breathing shallowly against the odor emanating from the other room.

No one came.  He finally realized no one was going to come to do his bidding.

Murderous rage filled him and as he stepped back out into his sitting chamber he threw the pitcher against the wall where it broke apart in a thousand fragments.  He took pleasure as they clattered down upon his floor.

Then, picking a careful barefoot way among the fragments, he walked over to the table by his chamber door and, holding his breath, grabbed the tray, opened the door, and hurled it out into the hall where it crashed with a satisfying sound against the further wall.

No longer able to deny his exhaustion, he made his way instinctively to his bed chamber, but paused the moment he set foot inside.  The heavy coverings on his bed filled him with visceral horror, as did the furs in front of the thankfully unlit fireplace.  The floor beneath his feet – formerly cool, now felt as if they had been heated.  His eyes burned.  His throat and lungs felt raw from the heated air, the air itself turned his enemy, thick and heavy and strangling.

How had the Jötnar who came to court in the days before the war survived this?

Fever-fire burned along his skin.  Did Odin mean for him to come mewling and begging for his mercy? No doubt Odin expected him to do so.  

He’d die first.  He’d roast alive first.

He regretted breaking the pitcher; he wanted more water.  But the goblet was still there.  He retrieved it from the sitting room and went into the bathing chamber.  He refilled it, drank it down.  The tub called to him, but it was empty.  His first instinct was to call for a servant to prepare it the way he liked it – then he remembered, again. 

None would serve him now.

No matter.  He knew how it operated.  Working the mechanism was not difficult.  He knew which spout brought heated water, and which cool, and which dispensed soaps and pleasing oils.

He activated the cool water and dipped his fingers in the stream as soon as it started.

Warm.  Lukewarm.  He looked at it in despair, caught up a handful and poured it over his head.  Still lukewarm, but as the breezes from the balcony caught him it cooled his skin slightly, and he felt the first traces of relief.

He cupped his hands again, drank, and then fell to the floor, put his head beneath the tap and drank and drank and drank.

Finally, his thirst quenched momentarily, he remembered to stopper the tub.  The water level began to slowly rise.  And he suddenly instinctively _knew_ how to form ice and use it.  He aimed his hand at the water, and directed the ice to form.

But nothing happened and he remembered, again, Odin’s sentence with despair – he could not even use this body’s natural abilities.  Not for weapons.  Not even for this.

He cursed Odin’s name loudly and comprehensively, hoping those thrice-damned ravens were close by and would take word of his curses to the vile old man.

When the water was deep enough he slid into it.  The warm water lapped over his skin and he unstoppered the tub, letting the water continually drain as new water flowed in.  It did not ease his overheated skin, but it did not make things worse.  And he felt clean.  He had never thought to feel clean again.    He kept drinking from the faucet every few minutes, a thirst unlike any he had experienced before in his life maddening him.  Finally he allows his eyes to slide shut.

 

He awoke suddenly.  Mother was calling to him.  He should –

Eyes flying open, he realized he was still inside the tub, the water still flowing.  Mo-- Frigga, who was clearly inside his sitting room, was calling his name.

He would not allow his mother to see him this way.  Naked, blue skin, marred with those barbaric twisting lines.  He did not wish to see her at all.

“Loki?”  She was silhouetted in the bathing chamber door, but she hadn’t come inside.

“Please leave,” he said, dismayed that his voice came out weak and hoarse.   He scrambled out of the tub, grabbed a drying cloth, and hid himself in a far corner, between a large goldenwood armoire and the wall.  He tried sitting cross legged but there wasn’t enough room.  Leaning back against the wall, fruitlessly hoping for some cool relief, his damp bare skin meeting yet more warm tile, he stretched out his legs.  Irritated that his feet were sticking out in plain view he pulled them back up, rested the soles of his feet on the floor, and draped the cloth over his lap.

“Loki?”  Her shadow crossed the bathing chamber floor before her as she approached.

“Please leave,” he said again. 

She ignored him and an instant later was looking down at him.  “Won’t you come out and talk to me?” she said softly, her gaze on his face.

He turned his head away and shut his eyes.  “Do not look at me.” 

He jerked and his eyes flew open at the hot touch of her fingers on his hands, which were resting on his knees. 

_Frigga’s gentle hands, burning at his touch!_ He yanked his hands away and hid them beneath his knees.  “Do you not fear my touch?”

“Oh my son.  Jötnar skin only burns when they wish to defend themselves.  I do know that,” she said sorrowfully.  “And you cannot do that now.  There is so much we both need to know, and so little I know to tell you.”

She held out her hands to him. He kept his blue hands away from her touch and averted his gaze. He did not want to look at her out of his red eyes.  He did not want to see the disgust in her face.  He wished for a cloak to hide himself in, and if one were to hand he’d use it, though his skin crawled at the thought of a heated suffocating covering. “How can you bear to look at me?”

She was silent for long enough that he finally looked up.

She was kneeling before him. 

Shock silenced him for a moment, and then he forced himself to speak through numb lips.  “That is not a fit position for the Queen of Asgard.” He made his voice cold and aloof and reproaching.

“It is fitting for your mother.”  There was a tremulous smile on her lips.

“Are you yet my mother?”

“I will always be your mother.”  She reached out her hand again, but he did not take it.  “You are my son and I love you.”

He threw her a murderous glance.  “Will you never tire of lying to me?  Were you ever going to tell me the truth?  Or did you plan to follow the old man’s wishes and leave me in ignorance **_all my life?”_** She made a tiny sound, rocked back and clasped her hands together.   “If we hadn’t gone to Jo--“  He stopped suddenly, his words leading him to the edge of a precipice he did not want to fall over.  Instead, he opened his mind to all the rage boiling inside him.  He was leaning forward now, spitting the words.  **_“What if I had taken a wife?  Would you have told me then?  What if I had sired a child? What kind of monster would you acknowledge as a grandchild?_** Oh, but I **_forgot_**.  The old man had **_plans_** for me.  And how did he plan to put me on the throne of Jotunheim?  By slaying Laufey and starting another war?  He should **_thank_** me for taking care of **_part_** of that problem.  The beast that discarded me is dead and his **_get,_** my **_true_** brother sits on that icy throne.  I am of no use to the old man now.  He should have finished his task!” 

Frigga had gone very still, and part of him grieved at the sorrow in her face, for he knew despite his lies she of them all had never sought to hurt him. 

The other part, raging at the lies she had told for centuries, rejoiced in her pain, and sought for cruelty as a weapon to drive her away.  “Were you not relieved to be rid of Laufey’s leavings?  The Jötunn filth your husband thrust upon you?”

She reared up, leaned over, and slapped him so hard across the face his head banged against the wall behind him.  “Do **NOT EVER** call yourself that again.  Jötunn, yes.  My Jötunn SON.”

He scoffed, ignoring the pain in his head, the sting on his skin.  “Your Jötunn **monster**!  You should have hurled that disgusting baby against the wall when he put it in your arms!  Dashed its brains out!”

He could hear her breathing, heavy and ragged, as she rose to her feet and took one step back, her gaze stricken.  “My son.”  Her voice was broken.

He was suddenly very tired, and when he sought for more cruel words to hurl at her nothing came to mind.  He bent forward until his forehead rested on his knees.  “All the court wishes me dead.  You know that,” he whispered.

Silence stretched out and finally when he couldn’t bear it anymore he looked up.  Her eyes were huge and the shadows cast on her face picked out the bone structure, the skull beneath the skin. 

He shuddered and leaned back against the wall, fighting his weariness, wanting her gone. “Does your husband know you are here, my Queen?”

“That is none of your concern.” Her voice was cold, but the faintest quaver betrayed her.

“Would your husband agree, my Queen?”

“I would see my son.”

“Go elsewhere, then.  **Your SON** is doubtless in some drinking hall, celebrating his victory over me with his sycophants.”

“Loki…”

Tears were streaking down her face.  He had never seen tears on her face before, no matter the cause.  He blinked against the moisture in his own eyes as something shuddered and broke inside him.  He wiped at his eyes.  “You should not have defended me.  The ax would have been easier.  Would have been kinder.  You should **_not_** have risked your life.”

“I did not risk it.”

“Do not lie to me.  I saw the look in the King’s eyes.  Your death was in his eyes.” 

She did not deny it.  She held her hands out to him. 

He did not take them.  He looked up at her through blurred vision.  “You should not be here.  Leave, before he learns of it.  I fear for you.”

“I will **_never_** abandon you.”

He barked a harsh laugh.  “Better if you would.  For both of us.”  Still she hesitated.  “You place yourself in danger, for no reason.”  She did not move, and a wild surge of emotion, a harsh knot of rage and anger and loathing, burst out:  “LEAVE!”

She dropped her hands to her side.  She turned.  She left.


	6. Vænta (Hope for, expect)

The room grew darker.  He left the lamps unlit.  He stayed in the bathing chamber.  Full darkness came, but he stayed in his corner while a writhing mass of fanged vipers raged in his mind, with their venomous burdens of pain and regret and renewed anger. 

At some point Thor entered his chambers, calling for him, but he kept himself hidden in the bathing chamber screaming, “Get out! GET OUT!   **GET OUT!** ” until Thor finally stopped calling to him and left.

He must have slept, but, feverish, he could not tell the difference between waking horrors and nightmares, terrifying thoughts that raged on and on and on, hour after hour, until the heat, which had receded slightly, came back with morning’s light and brought him to full wakefulness for a span of a few minutes.

Dragging himself back to the tub, he slid in, turned the water on and let it run continually.  He breathed the overheated air in shallow gasps and stayed motionless otherwise.   The light grew brighter, the room grew warmer, and he fell back into sleep, into fevered snatches of dreams. 

Mother’s garden.  The wall.  The trees.  Daring Thor to come with him to a crystalline cave in the mountains where he had heard that a magic crystal, round as a globe, waited for the taking – but only by the right sorcerer.  It would only respond to one hand. 

That hand, he was sure, belonged to him.

The cave.  Light.  The pain – shrieking agony in his hand, and Thor shouting and being dragged backwards over sharp stone –

He blinked, eyes hot against his lids, feeling as if were burning up, and suddenly shivering, icy cold, so cold he thought he would never be warm again.  Frost Giants leaning over him threatening, icy spears at his throat -  

Then heat, as if he’d been left naked on Muspelheim, chained to a hot iron stove while Surtr and his court danced around him and jeered as his skin seared off his flesh as he burned as he burned –

“Loki?  Loki?  Loki?”

_“Mother?”_ he asked, but it was Eir’s face above him, and he was surrounded by a soft clean energy and lying on the most comfortable, the most secure of beds. 

Frigga’s anxious face, somehow blurry at the edges, hovered behind Eir’s shoulders.  He blinked again and again but her face stayed smudged as if she weren’t truly there.  Eir’s hands moved and he felt the currents of energy pass over him, like lying beneath the surface of a swift-moving river, sweeping away the pain but leaving his exhaustion and bewilderment intact.  He was only dimly aware of the pain now, there, in his left hand, when before it had been blazing agony.  Now it was as if his hand belonged to someone else, not him, and then he saw himself again, climbing into the cave, seeing the glowing globe, reaching for it, Thor close by his side.

Touched it – and the smooth glass transformed into rough scales and a thick coiled body.  Thor shouted, tried to pull him back, and stumbled.  Fangs flashed as the snake attacked, sinking like thick needles into his flesh just as he shoved Thor out of its path.

_“Eir?”_ he whispered as the energy field thinned, and she reached down to him with one hand, which she rested an inch above his own, which he now realized was covered with a thin white bandage.  

She turned and spoke to Frigga who stepped forward and took his hand in her own.  She unwound the bandage.  He saw the twin wounds, still swollen and oddly blue-tinged at the edges, but somehow that didn’t matter.  Frigga touched the wounds with her fingertips and a sizzle of magic went through his hand, and suddenly the pain was gone.  And he could see her face and knew he was safe and he loved her with everything he was.

Frigga bent over him then and kissed his overheated forehead. _“Sleep now, my son.  My darling son,”_ she whispered, and why were her eyes shining with unshed tears?  Surely all was well now.

Then she was gone and Eir was hovering over him again, hands creating a bath of cool energy for him to lie in, cocooned and safe.  She smiled at him when she saw him staring at her.  “All will be well.  Sleep now, little one.”

In the way of children in the sway of fever he thought perhaps with her dark hair Eir might be his mother, in some improbable way, he a changeling child, a magical child meant for the King and Queen but born to Eir instead, and then given to his parents, never told. ~~~~

But no, Eir was not his mother; could not be; he would have been _told._

But her hands took away the pain, and her brows were no longer together in concern.  Mother, not mother, Eir was _there._ She smiled at him and gave him cold ice chips to cool his overheated mouth, and the trickle of cold water down his throat was the most healing balm of all.

And, comforted, he slept.

 

He woke, with Eir’s face foremost in his mind.  It was near dark now, and the evening brought slightly cooler air and a breeze coming in from the balcony that felt overly warm but not the oven blast of mid-day.

Filled with purpose, he got out of the tub and patted himself lightly dry.  He felt vaguely hungry, for the first time since before his sentencing, but pushed the thought away.  He drew garments from his wardrobe, choosing ones made from the softest, lightest fabric he could find.  He would **_not_** go naked among them.  There, a plain dark green shirt, there, informal breeches, only slightly more proper in public than underclothes.

He put them on, the long sleeves and high neck covering most of his skin.  He felt some relief at the discovery that the proportions of his body had not changed; that all of his clothing still fit.  Yet the heat of the cloth was torture.  Seconds crept by.  The fine cloth, seemingly lightweight, burdened his skin, trapped in even more heat.  Disgusted, he realized his mouth had fallen open and he was panting for air.  Panic hovered, ready to seize hold of him.

Ripping at the cloth, he pulled the shirt from his body and dropped it to the floor. 

So much blue.  So many snakelike markings.  Like all the old stories told.  Jötnar would freeze you alive with their touch, then eat your frozen flesh, crunching muscle and bone, leaving nothing behind but the last droplets of your blood staining the floor and their teeth -

Fighting temptation, he kept the black breeches on.  The thought of walking the halls again in only smallclothes was intolerable.  Reaching for his boots, he stopped again - the thought of putting them on was unthinkable; he remained barefoot.

He shut his eyes and shoved the pain aside.  That wouldn’t last, he knew; the Chitauri had proved that to him many times over.  And yet the tool was still there; the warrior oblivion to pain, that he had learned in long and tedious training in Odin’s training grounds.

He went out into his receiving chamber and paused for a moment, as he realized it looked the same – or nearly so.  A closer look revealed that items on his tables and bookshelves had been moved or disarranged, and the chest where he had kept some of his less powerful magickal artifacts was missing entirely.

He scanned his walls, where a multitude of hidden niches lay, warded against anyone’s touch but his.  Had they been able to find them?  Open them?  Angered at the realization that without his power it was impossible to learn the answer, he headed for the door that led into an interior hallway.  A new tray, filled with reeking food, had been placed on his entry table and he paused in the doorway.   His vague hunger of a moment before vanished; the thought of eating anything was repulsive.  Holding his breath, he grabbed the pitcher and exited his chambers.  There were no guards outside, and he felt momentary surprise.  But he knew how closely the wards confined him; this part of the palace, not that; the interior of the palace itself, not the grounds.  There were only a few places he could go.  Why bother with guards when Odin’s magic kept him confined?   

He stepped out into the corridor and winced at the bright light.  Remembering Jotunheim’s eternal night due to its great distance from its star, he could only hope his eyes could adjust to daylight in Asgard.

Squinting, tilting the pitcher to his lips, he drank it slowly down as he walked down the corridor, then tossed it aside.  Two women approached as he made the first turn toward his destination.  Gasping, one shrank back.  The other – turned and ran.

The remaining woman, Hildigunn, one of the lower court ladies, was staring at his face, mouth slack and eyes huge.  He showed his teeth.  “My Lady.”

Automatically, she gave him the beginnings of a respectful bow, then stopped abruptly.  Her gaze was now fastened on his naked chest.  She was trembling.

Without thinking, he stepped toward her, intending to walk around her.  She let out the beginnings of a shriek as she jumped back, then shut her mouth firmly.

“Your pardon, My Lady,” he said, and bowed one shade past politeness to insult. 

“Your – uh – High – ”  She shut her mouth halfway through the word and looked at him helplessly.

“Prince Loki will do.”  He huffed a humorless laugh at the panicked look in her eyes.  He might be Prince of nothing, but he’d still claim the title.  He swept on past her as if she no longer existed.

The way was long to the healing chambers, and he encountered many as he passed.  Two spoke to him, both hissing “Monster!  Jötunn filth!”

The word was like a dagger in his flesh.  He curled his hands, and tried to bring fire down upon them.  His head, already pounding from the heat, flashed with pain.   They sneered at him.  He treated both of them to a knife-edged smile and kept walking through the warren of hallways to where the healing chambers lay.  But their words kept ringing in his mind, the sound of their voices dripping venom, maddening him with the pain.

There must be some way out of this.  Some way to regain his magick.  Some way to leave here – leave and never return.


	7. Synja (Denial)

As he neared Eir’s domain the sharp scent of healing herbs and the dry earthy smell of crushed healing stones brought back memories.  Too many memories.  Thor, running ahead just in front of him, racing recklessly up a rugged mountainside in chase of a small mountain cat, not seeing the cub’s mother in the tree just ahead.

Loki saw.  Loki shouted to Thor, reaching for a dagger, throwing it, even as the great cat leapt.

There was blood, struggle, claws, PAIN!  And then, the creature’s blood flooding across his neck and chest as he sliced its throat mere seconds before Thor stove in its head with a huge rock, not holding back, breaking Loki’s shoulder in the process.

Eir’s face, when she had treated the claw gashes and his shoulder, had been calm, reassuring, even as they had been when she healed him from the serpent’s poison.  And even when her hands had brought pain they had just as quickly brought relief.  Recovery.  Well-being.

He stopped outside the entry chamber to Eir’s domain.  This was a place of fever and blood and pain.  This was a place of gentle hands which take away pain.  This was a place of healing, a place that made things better.   A place he could always come to when needed. 

The anteroom was empty save for a receiving table and a couch, and the light was, thankfully, dim, aiding the sense of peace these chambers held.  He blinked several times and the scratchy feeling in his eyes abated somewhat.  Wall hangings of idyllic country scenes, and fruit and flower motifs, some woven by the Queen, decorated the walls.  He paused at the door of one of the smaller healing chambers, hearing low voices inside.  He glanced in.  A young woman, Hulda, one of Eir’s apprentices, was seated at a table, concentrating on the workings of an instrument designed to scry inside a body and balance the energy therein.  It was currently placed over the arm, blackened with bruises, of a scowling adolescent boy.  Loki recognized him as Gisli, half-grown grandson of one Osvifr, one of Odin’s minor courtiers. 

They turned – and leapt to their feet.  Both of them reached for the daggers by their sides.  Their horrified faces struck him like a blow.  He kept his expression as politely interested as if he were listening to the conversation of a dull-witted foreign diplomat.  He regarded them evenly. 

The young man spat, “ _Sansorðinn!  Gríðníðingr_!”, drew out his blade with his uninjured arm, and strutted toward him.

Loki thrust up on arm by instinct – then dropped it again.  “If you were older I would kill you for that.” Loki smiled brightly, acknowledging and dismissing the _argr_ insults.  He looked him up and down contemptuously.  “Only half grown and already a strutting peacock.”

“If you have come here to threaten the women – ” The young man pointed the blade menacingly.

He ignored the young man and stepped toward Hulda, still keeping aware of the boy’s presence, the means to defend himself already calculated, his body ready to counterattack.  The woman did not back away from him.  “Bring me ice,” he demanded without courtesy.

“Eir, your presence please,” she called.

A second later Eir stepped through the further door and stopped at the sight of him.  He stood still, the sight of her, her dark curly hair, her authoritative face which could also be so kind, bringing him instant relief.  She was safety.  She was home.

She tensed and her chin rose.   She took in the scene before her.  “Gisli, leave us.”

“Are you certain?”  The boy looked caught between respect and doubt.  “This monster has come to harm you.”

Eir focused an authoritative gaze on him, “Leave, and do not raise any alarm.  I command that.  We are perfectly safe. We will send for you to finish your treatment.”

The boy gave them one last doubtful look and backed out of the chambers.

Eir turned back to Loki and fixed him with the look she’d often treated him to when he’d been injured on some misadventure, usually of his devising, sometimes of Thor’s, and he had not followed her medical orders.

He nodded courteously to her, as was proper, even as his gut clenched.  _How_ could she still make him feel like a small boy, in a way that even Frigga could not? 

He hid his reaction and treated her to a toothy smile.  “My lady.  I need ice.  I ask that you arrange to have some brought to me.”

Her eyebrows rose.  “We none of us are your servants any longer.  As you well know.”  She did not use his title.  Or even his name.  Her stern eyes met his, and he snarled in anger.  

“Then tell me where to find ice.” He did his best to keep desperation from his voice, but from the shift in her expression he knew he had failed. 

Her voice softened and her eyes held understanding, but her face remained stern.  “Punishment requires pain.  As often does healing.  This, you know.”

**No!**   How -- ?  She was not --  She was not going to help him.  She _always_ helped him.  She was the one who _healed_.  Stunned disbelief gave way to rage and he grabbed it like a weapon, pushing back pain, disbelief, sorrow, the urge to beg, the urge to cry out like a weak child.   “Can THIS be healed?” he spat, spreading his blue, marked arms wide, glaring at her.  “Did you ever know what lay beneath my skin?” he snarled.

She was silent, and he stepped forward till their faces were inches apart.  Yet she did not retreat from his bloody eyes, his poison-blue skin.  Hulda approached, knife drawn.  Eir thrust her arm out, blocking the other woman from stepping any closer.

**She knew,** something in his mind whispered, and did not tell you, and now she will do nothing to ease your suffering.

“You must have known all along!” Loki hissed, eyes never leaving hers. 

Her expression grew colder.  “Yes.”  The single word fell between them like a dropped stone.

“What liars you all are!”  He suddenly thrust up one hand, pulled by instinct, aiming it at her, waiting for ice to form.  To hurt her, like she was hurting him; to make her suffer like he suffered.

Nothing happened.  She eyed his hand but faced him calmly.  “I know your deeds.  This threat to me is one.  Have a care, Loki; do not add further crimes to the ones you have already committed.”

He stared down at his hand, then up at her, suddenly appalled at what he had wanted to do.  He put his hands by his side and took a half step back.  Keenly ashamed, he wanted to beg her pardon, but hatred flared, hatred of himself for letting those sniveling emotions into his mind, and the words died unsaid.

She was still watching him.  “You have done great wrongs.  This is part of your punishment.  You have much to atone for.  When you realize the enormity of what you have done you may consider asking for favors.  Do not be a foolish man.  You were never a foolish boy.  Reckless and full of tricks and jokes, and a love as great as your brother’s for getting into as much trouble as possible.  But never a fool.  For now I advise you to return to your chambers and think upon these matters, think of all you have done to deserve this judgment.  Think of all your might do to ease it.”

The sense of betrayal cut so deep he was speechless.  He stared at her, stricken.  She looked back sternly, understanding but no apology in her face.  “Loki,” she said, her voice gentle.  “I knew.  Only four of us knew.”

“Well,” he said, putting teeth into his smile.  “Now all do.”  He sketched an elaborate bow.  “You no longer need be a deceiver or a liar.  My lady.”  He turned and stalked out, brushing past Hulda who was still clutching her knife and staring at him in fear.

He found himself back out in the corridor, looking wildly around, but there was no one there.  Something cowardly, sniveling, _soft_ , urged him to flee back to his chambers, mewl like a child, hide himself away there until he died so no one would ever see his foul skin again.

Loathing filled him.  He was not _weak_ , and he despised the part of himself that let those feelings in.  Incandescent with rage, he turned away from the direction of his chambers, stalking through the hallways as if on a great hunt, with his prey in sight, and weapon in hand.

Heated air dragged at him, filling his lungs with fire.  The hot floor sent needles through his bare feet; he took in the pain and forced it back out in rage.  Rage, his constant vicious companion, goaded him to destroy everything in his path.  He flung his hands in magical gestures that should – SHOULD – have shattered the roof and brought the walls down in masses of rubble. 

He hissed at the vast emptiness inside him, the impotence, the amputation, and strode through the halls of the palace as if he were king and not outcast.  People approached, and most, on catching sight of him, shrank away, pressing themselves against the corridor walls, as if his glance, let alone his touch, could poison them.  He made a point to stare directly into the eyes of any who would meet his gaze, and took a dark delight at their expressions of horror and loathing.

_You all thought me a monster – behold me now, I AM a monster!_

Some did not shrink back but kept their stride and if he walked directly at them they flinched and averted their eyes when they saw him, but kept themselves from drawing away.

He had no destination in mind, but he could not stop walking.  Faster he walked, and people moved around him as if he were the prow of a boat cutting through the waves, their faces etched in nightmarish expression, in repulsion, in fury, in disgust, in contempt, in mockery. 

A very very few in pity. 

He hated them most of all.


	8. Lokasenna

He found himself at the doorway of Thor’s favorite dining chamber.  Smaller, darker and more intimate than the formal feasting halls, this was a place to set cares aside and visit with friends.  Many times had he taken meals here, and his mind held memories of sweet mead and the delicious taste of roast meats and fowl, and trading tales with others.

Though, his tales were not as well listened to as those tales told by others.  And flyting, which he enjoyed, but others did not half as much as he.  And some of tales he told others reacted to as if he presented them with a poisoned flower.  Which amused him.  Or so he told himself.

He did not have many happy memories associated with this place.

Laughing voices, snatches of conversation, and the sounds of music spilled out into the corridor.   The air reeked of spilled mead, stunk of burning candles and fire-destroyed flesh, and beneath it all he detected other unpleasant scents that he finally identified as fruits and breads.  Those smells, once so pleasant and appealing, now ruined. 

He stepped inside.  Shards of broken tankards littered the floor, threats to his bare feet.  He walked carefully further into the room, his eyes adjusting easily to the dim light.  A wall of sound greeted him.  Musicians were playing a rousing tune on drum and oud, but their best efforts were barely enough to compete against the roars of laughter and the booming conversations filling the air.  Tables crowded with laughing, drinking, feasting people occupied the center of the room and hugged three walls.  A few hounds were taking their ease at the feet of their masters.

The fourth side of the room was wide open to the air outside.  Night had fallen.  Firebowls had been lit, their flames contrasting with the splendor of the night sky.  Longing to go outside filled him.  Away from the firebowls, the air would be cool and fresh; he desperately craved its touch on his overheated skin.  Any breeze that attempt to pass through this room would be met by a wall of heat from the crowded bodies.

Anger flared higher.  All windows and doors leading outside were warded against him; the tantalizing sight of what was forbidden to him, the thought of the fresh cool air outside laid a fresh burden of pain upon him.  He pulled his gaze away from what lay outside and surveyed the room.

In the dim and flickering light from the lamps and the pillar candles placed about there were plenty of shadows to hide in.  The light was not as painful on his light-sensitive eyes as it was in other parts of the palace. 

Shouts of “Another! Another!” rang out from various tables.  Servants walked back and forth in the spaces between, some bearing trays of freshly-filled tankards which they gave to waiting hands, while yet others scurried to sweep up the broken fragments of tankards already hurled to the floor. 

And there was Thor’s back, a tankard in his hand.  His head was turned towards Volstagg who was laughing and talking and waving around what looked like a deer’s lower leg.  The light caught Thor’s hair as he turned his head toward Fandral, laughing, and the hale golden **_perfection_** of him made Loki want to rain down fire upon him.

It was a boarhound who first saw him.  The beast leapt to his feet, curled back its lips showing fierce bright teeth and growled threateningly.  Its master paid it no mind, his face nearly obscured behind a tankard, throat bobbing as he swallowed.

He studied the tables like a hunter who had just found his prey and was working out his tactics.  Many of those who had mocked him at his judgment were here.  He smiled and chose his quarry.

He stepped closer to the first table opposite the enraged hound.  Hoskuldr, Njal, and Arnor were sitting there, howling with laughter over some no-doubt humorless witticism.  A servant had just placed two new tankards on their table to replace the ones whose shards now littered the floor.  He had just reached for the third one on his tray when he saw Loki. 

The servant dropped the tray, but no one paid heed to the sound of yet another tankard crashing to the floor.  He backed away, eyes horrified.

The men at the table looked up, their good humor instantly replaced by disgust and scorn and hatred.  Loki stepped closer and leaned forward, the memory of the insults these same men had aimed at him while he’d knelt before Odin’s throne burned in his memory.

“Ah, Hoskuldr,” he said with a malicious sneer to the man on his left.  The one who had said to him, _‘Disgusting filthy nithing.  I will spit in your face when your head is on its pike.’_   Hoskuldr looked like Volstagg’s thinner cousin, if Volstagg had been given to styling his voluminous beard with an overabundance of various beads and braiding.  Loki exposed his teeth.  “You think your cowardice was not noted on Vanaheim when we fought the draugr?  I saw you hide in the cavern while your comrades fought bravely.”  Hoskuldr’s face formed into a ferocious scowl, but Loki saw the terror in his eyes, and the quick glance he made to his companions, who turned startled gazes toward him.

“And, Njal.” He smiled beatifically at the man in the middle, a man with a ferocious bristling black beard and one single eyebrow lowering over his beady eyes.  Njal had said, ‘ _Whoreson of a Jötunn bitch, beheading is too merciful.  Would that the All-Father tear your entrails from your belly and string you up by them.’_    Njal’s eyes snapped to his face, and he saw sudden alarm there.  Loki leaned toward him.  “Do you think you are the only one who knows you cannot sire children?  That your paltry limp manhood has never been in your wife, and that you give her to Straug so he may sire the children you call your own?”

Njal shoved his chair back and leapt to his feet, casting one panicked look at each companion.  Loki turned his attention to the last man at the table, whose glorious crop of golden hair contrasted with the pitiful strands comprising his patchy beard.  He was reaching for a sword which, unfortunately for him he was not currently carrying.  Arnor had said, _‘You_ argr _dog, you should be forced to lick the boots of all men here before you lose your head._ ’  “And, Arnor.”  He made his voice gentle.  “Does your wife know about your gambling debts?  How fortunate for you that she earns so much coin with her whoring.”

All three men were on their feet now, focusing their rage on him, betraying themselves by quick sidelong glances at each other.  He laughed softly and spread his hands wide.

A heavy hand landed on his shoulder and a voice growled in his ear.  “Enough, Loki.” 

The room had gone dead silent.  The three men looked up at the people behind Loki, and just as quickly turned away. 

Loki savored their discomfort for one moment longer.  The grip on his shoulder tightened painfully.   “Ah, Thor.”  He turned regretfully to his not-brother.  “I was only just getting started.”  Thor’s expression was murderous.

Loki pulled away from Thor’s grip.  Scanning the room, he put on a wide smile and raised his voice.  “I know **_all_** of your secrets.”

Muttering and grumblings ran through the crowd.  Every eye was on him.  He bowed mockingly, and tilted his head, seeking out first one, then another set of eyes to train his own bloody gaze upon and give each one an exceptionally wicked smile.  Thor grabbed both of his shoulders and dug in his fingers bruisingly tight.  He dipped and twisted out of Thor’s grasp.

“Sew his lying mouth shut!” someone shrieked, and the three men behind him shouted in approval and roared, “ ** _Sew his mouth shut!”_**

The crowd exploded, “Kill him!!  Kill the Jötunn freak!”


	9. Hata (Damage, Destroy)

Thor thrust up one arm and thunder cracked outside, a deafening wall of sound that left silence with its passing.  Half the crowd was staring at Loki, the other half at Thor.

Thor pulled Loki to his side and wrapped one arm around him as if he were about to fly away with him, Mjolnir thrust to the fore, taking them on some adventure.

Except Thor wasn’t holding Mjolnir and this was no new exciting adventure.

Fury and disbelief warred on Thor’s face as he looked over all the faces, most of who looked away from his angry gaze.  “Father has ordered none harm my brother.  Be warned that if any do lay hands on him and do him any harm **AT ALL** I will see to their execution myself.”

The crowd had gone dead quiet.  Outside, thunder continued to rattle.  Loki snuggled himself closer to Thor’s side and showed his teeth to the crowd in a knife-edged grin, pleased that most eyes were riveted on him.  Their expressions spoke, **_death_**.

Tightening his hold around Loki’s waist, Thor gave him a hard yank, turning him around. 

Well.  He definitely did not want his mouth sewn shut.  Or to be murdered.  Kicking and flailing with just enough vigor to make it convincing, knowing he could easily slip out of Thor’s grip, Loki allowed Thor to drag him out of the room, because who, after all, could hold against the mighty Thor?  He stepped through the broken tankard shards, barely noticing the sting of the cuts on his bare feet as Thor dragged him out into the corridor, leaving bloody footprints behind them.

Pushing hard, Thor kept Loki hurrying along the maze of corridors leading from the dining hall back to Loki’s chamber, Loki’s long strides barely keeping up with Thor’s speed.  No one crossed their paths.  Thor deserved credit, Loki supposed, half-amused.  Thor did remember the routes they’d worked out as young boys intent on eluding prying eyes, ways to walk through public chambers and corridors at certain hours and remain entirely unseen because the life of the palace had moved elsewhere at those times.

Just after they entered the Grand Receiving Chamber, Loki had had enough.  Twisting, ducking, and pivoting, he broke free from Thor’s grasp, the quicksilver moves Thor never quite managed to keep up with.  He danced several paces ahead of his not-brother, crisscrossing through bars of shadow and light.  The sting of the cuts on his feet was an inconsequential thing, distant now.  He was buzzing with the energy that served as façade over his utter exhaustion, a fancy fragile net holding him up, concealing the pit below.

The vast room was empty now and dimly lit.  Full night had fallen.  No ambassadors from other realms requiring wining and dining were waiting in a room calculated to trumpet Asgard’s power, grandeur, and glory.  The enormous statue-columns holding up the ceiling, attesting to Asgard’s might and giving tribute to all the warriors who now dwelled in Valhalla, glorious in their victories, seemed to Loki a blowhard’s bragging.  He was utterly sick of gold.

He spun to face Thor.  Thor, jaw set, glared at him.

“Brother,” Thor began.

“Why still call me brother, Odinson?” he hissed. “We are not.  Surely even an oaf like you can understand this, when the truth is so obvious before you?”  He made a mockery of a courtly gesture.

Thor growled, “Cease your lying, brother.”

“I speak truth, and you know it.”

Thor made an inarticulate sound of frustration and rage.  “Do you wish to die?  Is that why you sought to incite their wrath?  Have you lost your silver tongue entirely?  You always made an art of talking your way out of trouble – and now you continually invite more.”

“Are they not to answer for their insults to me?  Oh yes, you weren’t there during those long hours while they spit on me – “ well, actually that had not happened, but a bit of embellishment was good for any story – “and called me the most vile names, and me with no recourse.”  There, that much was true, and truth and lies mixed together were far more potent than ladled out separately.

Thor sighed, his anger ebbing way, replaced by a most uncharacteristic weariness.  Loki cocked his head, considering this aspect of Thor, so seldom seen.  “You know as well as I the rules which apply to prisoners.  You cannot accept or incite holmgang; your fate belongs entirely to Father.”

“Why should I accept his sentence?” he said, and added maliciously, “I am not of Asgard, after all.” 

Disappointment weighed heavily on Thor’s face.  “You would prefer Jotunheim justice?  They have demanded your death.”

“I would **_prefer_** the birthright I was promised!”

“That which you stole from me, when you advised me not to go to Jotunheim – knowing full well your words would spur me to do the opposite of what you said?”

Loki’s eyes widened.  “I would say you threw it away with both hands,” he snarled.  “You did not need my silver tongue to ruin your chances at kingship; one petty insult – and what you said to your father – and you threw it away yourself.”

Thor looked at him consideringly, and Loki readied another salvo.  “I did indeed,” Thor said.  “I was not worthy of the crown.  I still am not.”

Speechless, his next round of insults forgotten, Loki stared at him for another moment.  “And I even less so, I suppose.”

“We are neither of us worthy.  We have both slain without thought or fear of consequence.”

“But you, the golden one, the true **_son_** , are welcomed back as if nothing had ever happened, while **_I_** , the stolen monster, am left gelded and despised.  While you, the favored one – were given a mere three days of exile to satisfy Odin’s anger at you – a child’s punishment.”

“He made me mortal.  I could die.  I was **dying.** At **your** hands.”

Loki spat.  “And so I deserve everything the old man chose?  Did not the Jötnar demand blood price from you?  And yet here you stand, you, who slew hundreds of Jötnar with your fancy hammer, pay no price for that at all.  Why does the old man think you **worthy?** ” ~~~~

“What have you done to prove **_yourself_** worthy?”

There it was.  The black pit before him.  No words left. 

“Just so.”  Thor said.

Loki remained silent.  The weariness he had beaten back now threatened to overcome him, and the heat, which had been a goad and a spur to his rage, was now oppressive, draining him of his strength.  His mouth was dry and he craved water with an overwhelming intensity.  He found he had clasped his forearms in his hands and was scratching at the dry skin.  Bits of it flaked off, fell to mar the perfection of the inlaid floor, and if he looked closely he could still see occasional specks of blood marking the path of his feet from the further door.  He looked up – and found that Thor was staring at his chest.

Thor glanced down further, jaw almost slack with astonishment, as his gaze swept along Loki’s hands and arms, then back to his chest, looked further down, to his legs, his feet.

Dropping his hands to his sides, Loki followed Thor’s gaze as he, seemingly without volition, looked up and down Loki’s body, tracing the lines on his skin with his gaze, and then, finally, back up to his face again, locking his gaze on Loki’s alien eyes, with a look of astonishment on his face as if he were seeing them for the first time.

Something stabbed inside Loki.  Thor’s gaze on him had often filled him with pleasure, whether in lust or besting him on a quest, or playing a successful trick, or simple affection, lying in the grass by the edge of the world after carefully-glamour-concealed sex.  He accepted these glances, as he accepted Thor’s touches, with a greed that was never satiated, but always, _always_ , there had been love, need, desire, in them.

There was none of that here, but rather shock and sorrow.  Keen grief shot through him at one more thing he had lost.  Something he had never thought about, because he never thought he could lose, never thought it was possible to lose.  Followed by revulsion as Thor’s gaze forced him to follow suit and he looked down again at his own body.  He dragged his gaze from the blue of his skin, from those twisting markings which branded him Laufey’s son.  Forcing his voice to remain light and casual, he asked, “What?  Have you never seen a Jötunn before?  We both know you saw many dozens of them as you hurled Mjolnir through their bodies, spreading their icy guts along Jotunheim’s frozen ground!”

Thor looked back up at his face.  He swallowed, speechless for once.  “It is just – I had not – I did not know what - “ He sputtered then stopped speaking, looking powerfully frustrated.

Loki applauded.  “Always so articulate!”

Thor scowled.  “It is best we return to your chambers.”  But his gaze kept slipping from Loki’s bloody eyes, further down, back up. 

Loki snarled, shoving back a fruitless desire to cover himself, to run, to conceal himself from Thor’s gaze.  “Why this fascination now with my **_hide_**? I recall you present when the old man passed his sentence and flayed me of my own skin, leaving **_this_** behind!    Did you only just now realize you’ve been fucking a monster?”

Thor blanched.  “You are **not** a monster!”  He straightened, the slight trace of a despairing slump gone from his shoulders.  “I saw you before, but I did not look.”

Loki huffed a humorless laugh.  “That is brainless, even for an oaf like you.”

“I needed to – “

“Do what?” Loki demanded.  “What could **_possibly_** have interested you more than your glee at my downfall?”

Thor grabbed his shoulders and pulled him close to yell in his face.  “Do not ever think that!  You are my brother, and despite your hard words and your endless lies, do not **_ever_** think I wish you any evil.” 

“Then what is this all about?” Loki’s voice cracked from the dryness in his throat.  He swallowed, swallowed again, and forced himself to focus despite the pounding in his head, which echoed the hard pounding of his heart.  Even though he was close enough to distinguish every hair of Thor’s beard and brows, Thor himself suddenly seemed at a distance removed from him.  Rage faded as his head began swimming, and he raked his nails against his forearms to bring the world back into focus.

“I feared for her,” Thor started, then set his mouth shut. 

And suddenly Loki saw – Thor’s protective arms around Mother; Thor’s glared defiance at the old man.

He swallowed, and now his throat felt like it was filled with cracked glass.  “He would have hurt Mother,” he whispered.

Thor went still.  Neither said a word.  A moment passed.  Another.  Loki had thought he had seen every expression Thor’s face was capable of making, but he had never seen that expression on Thor’s face before – a gut-deep, mortally wounded betrayal.  Not even in their confrontation on that Midgard mountain, nor on the Man of Iron’s Tower.

Nor, he knew, was that expression directed at him.

Thor broke the silence. “I advise you to stay in your chambers from now on.  Because there are those now who would risk Father’s wrath in full measure to have their revenge against you.  You have assured that. And I cannot always be there to protect you.”

But Thor’s eyes had answered the question.  And Loki, suddenly exhausted beyond measure, and very afraid for Mother said, “Be there to protect **_her_** since I cannot.”

“I will **never** let her come to harm.”

“Swear it!”

“I so swear it,” Thor said.  Lightning-light was fierce in his eyes, and his voice rumbled thunder itself.

Loki sucked in a breath.  Something ancient twisted in his gut; something foul flickered at the edge of his mind, some trace of something he needed to know, then disappeared when he tried to capture it.  “Has he hurt her before?” he rasped.

Thor’s face twisted.  “I do not know.  He has changed, since you’ve been gone.”

He swallowed past the sourness in his throat.  “And I suppose all blame me?”

“I do not.”

“Liar!”

“Never doubt me!” Thor shouted.  “I blame **_him_** for letting you fall!”

Loki stared at him in astonishment.  Thor seemed to freeze in place before him, making an impotent gesture to his mouth, as if he could either call back those words or speak even more.

Loki nodded, too exhausted to say another word.  Thor reached out and wrapped his arms around him.  The cloth of Thor’s shirt was rough and irritating, but he ignored the sensation.  Too tired to even lift his arms, Loki permitted the gesture of affection, despising himself when he leaned into it, ignoring the way Thor’s huge hot body added to the torture of his own fevered skin.

Thor pulled away and Loki blinked at him, for a moment so tired he feared he might fall.  “I will not allow further harm to come to you,” Thor said, his tone a quiet distant rumble.

“Liar,” Loki said, but there was no strength in his voice and only fog in his mind.

“You know I speak the truth.”  Thor stepped back and gave him an indulgent smile, before his expression twisted to worry.  “Let us go.” Thor grasped Loki’s arm, pulling him around so they could walk side by side, then let go.  Loki stumbled, righted himself, and looked away from Thor’s concern.  He took one step, another; put one foot after another, over and over.  It was not that far.  Not that far, and Thor could bring him water and he’d drink his fill, and he’d get in the tub, and maybe Thor would bring him ice if he asked, and maybe this horrible heat, this horrible pain in his head would recede, if only for a moment.

They passed into the next deserted room.  The next, and all around them the shadows clung.  His heart was racing, pounding erratically in his chest, and it grew ever harder to breathe.  It was hard to think.  Everything was growing hotter, hotter.  His skin was burning, his vision blurring.  He kept one thought in mind:  make it to his room without falling.  He could not bear the shame if Thor had to carry him.  One step.  Another. 

Sudden brightness ahead in the gloom, and he gasped, startled, at the sight of the enemy.  There.  Approaching, even as he stumbled forward, stopped in astonishment.  A Jötunn, here in the heart of Asgard!

And he was running, running towards it, weaponless, ready to kill with his bare hands!  Thor was yelling but it didn’t matter.  He was faster.  And **_it_** was running toward him too, lips drawn back in a snarl, and he suddenly realized it was himself.  It was a mirror, he knew, but it was a monster he saw, and he hated hated HATED!  It didn’t matter that it was him; he’d kill it anyway, and he reached out his arms as he ran headlong into the glass. 

Impact!  Loud, shattering, breaking, breathless, beating at the breaking glass with his arms, his hands, feeling it cut! Cut! Not caring at all!  Shrieking, he slammed his forearms against the glass, and shards exploded around him, raining down in thousands of pieces around him, wet running off his elbows, his face, his chest, dropping in rivulets to the floor.  He wanted to weep with pleasure as his blood flooded that clean and perfect surface. 

Thor’s arms were around him, pulling him back, and he was laughing and swearing and babbling incoherent words.  He was going to fall anyway, always falling, falling forever, and darkness was reaching for him, the darkness of the Void. 

But then Thor’s arms lifted him up.  Thor’s voice shouted words at him, and his heart kept pounding.  More liquid was running off his body, dropping to the floor, and he was still falling and everything went hazy and then quite black.


	10. Ragnarok

He was vaguely aware of the sensation of strong arms holding him, of being in motion.  He tried opening his eyes, failed.  He let out a breath.  Why was the air so hot?  His skin was feverish and there was pain. But there was comfort too.  Thor’s familiar scent enveloped him.  His back was hot.  Something was supporting his knees, his neck and shoulders, but it felt odd.  And very hot.  He blinked and managed to open his eyes.  Thor’s grim face was directly over his, but when he saw Loki’s eyes were open he gave him the travesty of a reassuring smile. 

He glanced to one side and saw a field of scarlet that somehow smelled strongly of Thor.  His thoughts were moving very slowly, but he finally recognized it as Thor’s cape.

Thor had placed him on his cape and was carrying him.  How odd.  But it felt safe.  Thor was carrying him.  Thor would protect him.  What had happened to him? But it was too hot to think, too much to do anything but struggle for breath. 

Turn.  Climb.  Turn.  Shadows and light passed over his closed eyes.  Shadows again, and familiar scents.  He slit his eyes open as they passed through a brightly lit hall.  “Too bright,” he mumbled, squeezing his eyes shut.  Then, his room.  Step.  Step.  Darker still.  His eyes slid shut. The movement stopped.  And then, very gently, Thor set him down.  He was barely aware of Thor moving his legs, then his ass, and then Thor removed his breeches, now slashed to ribbons.

Then Thor set him back down and everything was instantly worse as his skin came in contact with a hellish surface, yielding, sucking him down, blazingly hot, a thousand separate strands of torment assailing his skin. 

 A groan escaped him, and Thor touched his forehead.  “Hold still, brother; let me tend you.”

He sucked in breath with difficulty and cracked his eyes open.  He realized Thor had reclaimed his cape and he was lying on the fur cover on his bed.  He felt like he was sinking into its heated embrace and it would never let him go.  He tried to rise, to escape its confining embrace.  Thor gently held him in place.  Something wet touched his face and he squeezed his eyes shut again.  The coolness moved to his chest, his arms, his legs.  He realized Thor was tending to his wounds, and he welcomed the cooler touch of the water even as pain flashed from his hands, the dozens of places the mirror glass had sliced through his flesh.

Thor finished cleaning his wounds.  He paused when he noticed Loki’s open eyes.

“Water,” Loki managed to say.

Thor disappeared for a moment, came back with a filled glass and helped Loki into a half-sitting position.

Loki drained it instantly and handed it back.  He reached for Thor’s hand, and Thor interlaced their fingers.  Blue against white.  He shuddered, then looked more closely at his skin.  Dried blood flaking off, yes, but he saw some of his skin was flaking off as well, and the blue of his skin had taken on a grayish hue.

Thor let go of his hand, reached for a ewer and refilled the glass.  Loki grabbed the ewer from his hand and drank greedily until it was dry, then drained the glass as well.  Thor disappeared for a moment, then returned, the ewer refilled.  Finishing, he fell back against the pillows and just lay there, struggling for breath, watching Thor.

“Sleep if you can,” Thor said.  “I’ll go for a healing stone and bring it back to you.”

“Nothing can help me,” Loki whispered.  Pain flared in Thor’s eyes.  Loki felt numb.

His brother stepped away, turned and was gone, leaving him trapped in the suffocating heat.

Long moments passed when all he could do was gasp for breath.  The thick fur dragged at him like a thousand imprisoning hands and his chest felt as if Mjolnir itself rested upon it. 

_No barren moon!_ The Other insisted. 

He would have laughed if he had the strength.  He was going to die on Asgard, of starvation, of heat.  _I will cheat you of that, at least._  

Struggling to move, to escape the hellish prison of his bed, he rolled onto one side, heedless of the slashes across his arms and chest.  He rolled again, and again, right to the edge of his bed, where he caught the whiff of a wonderful scent.

There.  On the chest by his bed.  The ewer. 

He tried to push himself upright so he could reach out and grasp it.  Failed. 

Groaning, he rolled again, and pain shot through him as he impacted the floor.  His headache, gone quiet for a moment, flared anew.  He managed to drag himself to where he was sitting upright, back leaning against his bed.  The room was spinning around him, and black spots filled his vision.  His heart just kept beating, faster, faster, and his mouth was so dry.  Hands shaking, he reached out for the ewer on the chest, now just barely within arm’s reach.

But his hand jarred it and it overturned, crashing down, water spreading across the floor.  He grabbed and righted it, and put it to his lips, draining the small amount which remained within.

Not enough.  Not enough.  Humiliated, he crawled to the spilled water and lapped it up, then lay panting as the floor, which had cooled briefly from the wet, heated again.

The tub.  Tiles, cooler than this flooring, beckoned.  He crawled around his bed, began making the slow journey toward the bathing chamber.  His floor seemed leagues long, and he had to pause twice to just breathe, take a shallow breath of the heated air, let it out, take another.

Another few feet.  More.  His hair, fallen down around his face, smothering him with its heat, added to his torment.  He pushed himself back on his heels and dragged his hands through his hair.  Too hot!  Too heavy!  He instinctively reached for one of his knives but his hand encountered nothing but his naked skin.  He tried to stand up, failed.  Maddened, he twisted his fingers into two hanks of hair and jerked hard.  Bright pain flashed as hair ripped from his scalp.  Blood followed and that too was too hot.  Screaming his frustration he collapsed back to the floor, the hair falling from his now-limp fingers.

A sob escaped him.  He bit his lip until blood flowed there too, so as to not make any more disgusting sounds, and continued crawling into the bath chamber, hot trickles of blood running down his temples.

There.  The tub.  Only a few feet away.  Mindless now, he kept moving forward, goal in sight.

“Loki!”

The word, roared at full volume, was meaningless to him.  He was almost there.  Inches away.  He reached out for the raised edge, ready to pull himself forward, slide into its sunken depths.

“LOKI!”

He didn’t stop or even turn his head.  Brutal hands caught him by the shoulders, flipped him over.  The back of his head struck the lip of the tub but the sharp cracking sound and the jarring pain felt distant, unreal.  He looked blankly up at the face hovering above his.

“Crawling like a worm.”  The voice sneered its disappointment, and sudden recognition made his vision clear.

The old man.  Standing in front of him, light glinting off his court armor.  Face distorted by fury and disgust, Odin glared down at him.  “Disgusting.  Loathsome.  You would never have been fit to be a king; I see that now, to my sorrow.  How dare you create the chaos you did today?  I warned you that you would be banished to the deepest dungeon if you caused any trouble, and you chose to do so the very next day.  The guards are outside, and they will take you there.  Stand up, if you have any pride left in you at all.  Otherwise, they will drag you there like a dog!”

A sudden shock of energy burst through him and he grabbed at the hate filling him.  He staggered to his feet and essayed a mocking smile even as the room swam around him.  He kept his gaze focused on Odin’s glaring eye.  “If you despise me so much, why didn’t you just use the ax?  Here I am, a symbol of your failure, of your **_cowardice_** at letting an enemy live!”  He threw the words like his knives, glorying in the narrowing of Odin’s eye, the rage contorting the old man’s face.  “Your **_sacrifice_** for **_politics_!  You, the All-Father, bending down for the Jötnar!  You loathsome _nithing_ monster!  Helblindi’s bitch!  Argr!  You--”  **

He spat out the words rapidly even as he saw Odin’s fist crashing towards his jaw.  Pain exploded and blood burst from his mouth from his torn lips and shattered teeth and flew from his nose.  He clapped a hand to his face.

 “Silver tongue!?!  Your own words damn you.”  Odin roared in anger.  “Think not to blame others for the consequences of your actions!  You and you alone have chosen your fate.”

Loki gagged against thick blood, struggled for breath, fighting to spit more words out with his own blood, but his voice failed him.  His legs gave way and he fell, suddenly knowing he would never rise again. 


	11. Frest (Respite)

A paroxysm of coughing shook him, triggering agony in every part of his head.  Fever heat rushed over him again, and he suddenly had the illusion he was crumbling to dust.  He found himself on his back, looking up as Odin, face distorted in rage, raised Gungnir.  His vision blurred as blue and green fabric filled his vision. 

“You will not do this!”  Mother’s voice, raised as it rarely was, filled with righteous anger and fear.  “ _What have you done to him?_ ” 

She was standing between them, and that was wrong, that was dangerous, and he tried to call out to warn her, but choked on blood instead. 

“How can you defend this creature?”  Odin roared.

“You will not kill our son.”

“Wife!” Odin shouted.  “He is **_not our son!”_**

A sudden silence.  He saw his mother’s form go rigid.  “You laid him into my arms, a mere babe, and gave him to me to care for, to cherish, to love.  As I did then, so do I now.”

“My wife.”  Odin sounded weary now.  “He has turned against us, a serpent striking at those who would befriend it.” 

Loki no longer had the strength to keep his eyes open.  He let their voices wash over him. 

“He fought for Asgard and would have saved us all from war.”

“A fool’s way.”  Odin’s voice sounded broken.

“You let him fall!  If you had offered him one kind word – “

“I showed him kindness all his life.”

“By showing your favor to Thor in all matters?”

“Thor is my son.”

Mother made a noise of distress.  “And so is he!  Husband, please… can’t you see he’s dying, husband?  Look at him!  You are killing him now!”

He heard the shifting of feet, the rustle of fabric.  There was a long silence, then Odin spoke again, his voice calm and measured.  “You will speak with him.  Make him understand I have granted him this mercy.  Should he trespass the courtesy he owes all of Asgard again, he will be confined to the dungeons, and I will close my ears to any pleas for clemency.”

“I will care for him.”

“If he remains quiet, I wish to hear nothing of his doings.”

Odin’s footsteps, crossing the floor, out the door.

Mother’s featherlight fingers on his face and he choked out a garbled sound of pain.  “Oh my poor boy.” 

Retreating footsteps.  Whispered words.  Returning footsteps.  A soft wet cloth, wiping the blood away.  He gritted his teeth against the rocketing pain.  Then, a goblet of water pressed to his lips, tipped drop by drop into his mouth.  He swallowed painfully, but his need for water was too great to resist.  He drank all she offered and managed to slit his eyes open, to see his mother’s frightened face.  “Eir is coming,” she whispered.

“Do not endanger yourself for me,” he tried to say but didn’t know if any of his words were intelligible.

She smoothed his hair back, stopped her hands abruptly at the bloody bald patches near his temples.  There was suddenly someone next to her, someone huge and angry.  He heard a sudden startled intake of breath, and looked up into Thor’s storm-blue eyes.  Weariness dragged at him; his eyes slid shut again.

Thor said in a low tone, “His skin has changed.”  Loki distantly felt Thor’s hand rub along his arm, feeling the catch of the callouses against his skin which seemed to be coming off in pieces.  “What is wrong with it?  Is he meant to be that color?”

Loki struggled to open his eyes.  The room had gotten very dim.  What did Thor mean?  Confused, he lifted a shaky hand, inspected its back.  Yes, the blue had faded from his skin, replaced by a lifeless grey, with lighter patches splotching the skin.  Blood, still sticky, clung to his hand.  He wanted to brush it off, but he was so very tired.   He let his hand drop back down to his side.

Water was running.  He felt himself be lifted and for a moment was seized with the fear that he would be placed in boiling water, but the temperature was as tepid as he himself could make it, and he went boneless.  He felt Frigga’s hands on his face, heard her whispering spell words.  The pain eased, as did his breathing, and the water felt cooler, more soothing.

He felt someone press a cool wet cloth against his face.  He opened his eyes, to find Thor’s face inches from his own.  “Shall you slay the monster now?” he slurred thickly, barely able to form the words despite the lessening of the pain.  “There is little left of it.”  Thor’s eyes filled with tears.

Then everything faded away for a time, and when he woke he found he was lying on his back.  Someone kept bathing his forehead, his body, with blissfully cool water.  He was being moved along on something he recognized after a moment as one of Eir’s transport platforms.  Looking up, he saw familiar faces, women he recognized as two of her helpers. 

So, he was bound for the healing chamber again, and not of his own volition.  He turned his head and saw people walking past them in the corridor.  Yet none looked at them, none seemed aware of their presence.

A glamour then, Frigga’s glamour, cast so none would be disturbed by the presence of the monster.  He wanted to speak, but his broken jaw flared pain and some strange choking noise came out of his damaged lips instead.  Frigga’s fingers touched his face and his throat, and the cut-glass sensation faded, replaced by a soothing numbness.  She was still whispering words over him as they walked, and he felt safe and protected and let himself sleep.

Cool.  Cool.  He woke in stages, enjoying the sensation, letting it embrace him.  He was lying still, but it felt like he was under the waters of a slow moving-stream.  Voices floated around him, like birdsong on the wind, their meaning as shattered as sunlight dappled upon water, bright and ephemeral and impossible to capture.  Their sound, like the touch of wind upon leaves in trees, a gentle rustle of movement which could only be heard and seen only briefly and then was gone.

He slit his eyes open, but only shadows passed around him and were gone again.  He squeezed his eyes shut, and pain flared again.  When he opened his eyes again the room came into focus.  He was lying immersed in some liquid in the bed of the Soul Forge, its energies also bathing his body, sending tingling currents around his body.  It was pleasantly cool, and his body seemed to be drinking the liquid in through his skin, his pores opening to seize it all, his every desiccated cell absorbing what they desperately needed. 

He saw movement a few feet away.  Eir, frowning at the controls, was calibrating the Soul Forge.  She then stepped away and joined Mother and Thor who were deep in conversation.

“Hulda said when he came here he tried to use his ice as a weapon,” Thor said in response to whatever Eir had just said.

“Yes. He did.”

Eir’s words were true, but he had not been able to do it, to form the ice.  He didn’t know if he would have actually used it.  It was his new body’s instinct; he had not thought about it at all, simply done it, simply raised his hand against them and impotently _aimed_ , not caring who he struck.

Mother was speaking.  “Odin has taken his ability to defend himself with ice and frostburn away from him, for the safety of all.”

“That was a wise choice.  For he would use those abilities without thinking.  His heart is filled with wrath.”  Eir moved to stand behind him.  She rested fingers on his forehead.  He felt the passage of cool liquid over his body.  His body welcomed it, absorbing it, demanding more.

“Is that why it is safe to touch him?”  His brother was speaking, his voice a low rumble, counterpart to the lighter voices of the women.  “His skin is cool and strange to the touch, but it does not burn.”

“It is safe to touch Jötnar.”  Mother was speaking again, and the sound of her voice and the clean odors of this place were like her loving arms around him, and he so very small, taken ill with fever and screaming from nightmares.  The monsters were coming to get him!  But she would protect him; she and Eir, and then he would be strong and with Thor he would slay them all so they would never come to torment his dreams again.

Mother was still speaking.  “I was told they are not dangerous to touch unless they are embattled.  I have heard that in the past, before my time, tales of Jötnar and Aesir wedding and having children.”

“I have never heard such tales!” Thor exclaimed.  “How is that even possible?”  What was that tone in his brother’s voice?  Astonishment?  Hope?  Or were those feelings dwelling entirely in his mind?

“Perhaps these tales should be told again.  I would there be an end to these wars, before more die or be maimed for no good reason.”  Mother’s voice was as weary as he had ever heard it.  His fingers twitched, wanted to reach out to her.

“Mother, I have not heard…”  Thor fell suddenly silent, and Loki, realizing he’d closed his eyes without thinking forced them open again.  Thor was staring at him with an odd expression on his face.  Eir had moved back to the other end of the device, joining Frigga.

Someone was standing behind him.  Fingers touched his head, taking hold of his hair.  He heard an odd sound and felt a strange tugging sensation.  Surprised, he realized his hair was being cut.  With every snip he felt heated weight falling away from his head.  He tried to lift an arm to touch it, but the surface of the liquid was impassable.  He tried and failed to sit.  His entire body felt like it had been weighted down with stone.

“Brother, all will be well.” Thor’s expression had changed to one of concern.  He held Loki’s gaze, and repeated, “Be still and all will be well.”

_Liar,_ he tried to mouth, but his lips would not form the words.

Mother moved toward Thor, stood beside him, and laid a hand upon his arm.  She looked down at Loki, and a wide smile touched her lips.  “Be still,” she said as he again tried to lift his hand.  “You know that it is best not to try to move while in the Soul Forge.”

Energy shifted around him, and the currents gained speed, flowing swiftly over him, around him, dropping back into lulling waves, then increasing again, then varying so it seemed his right side was being tugged by a torrent while his left floated in a gentle pool, and then the sensation reversed, reversed again.  He gasped, and felt Eir’s hands on his forehead, his temples, his face, and he felt the energies slow and equalize. 

Exhaustion seized him again, clouding his mind, plucking at him, seeking to draw him down into darkness.  His eyes closed without his volition.

Mother’s voice held fear. “Can you help him?”

Eir’s voice was calm. “I do not know, my Queen.  I have never had cause to heal a Jötunn before, or even examine a body.  The life processes are different.  I can see where the wrongness lies, but I do not know how to address it.  I do not know if it can be addressed.  It is possible that the All-Father has taken something from him which cannot be replaced.”

“…his magic?”  Frigga’s voice was wavering in and out and he forced his eyes back open, forced himself to stay awake. 

“Perhaps.  When the All-Father removed it perhaps he removed something essential from his body with it.  I cannot replace what has been amputated.  No more than I could replace the all-Father’s eye.”

“But is it gone entirely?” Frigga voice held desperate hope.

“I cannot say,” Eir replied.  “Were he in his Aesir form I would know immediately, but the Jötnar are so very different.”

That was important.  Questions fought to be formed in his mind, and then dissipated again.  He struggled to stay conscious.

“Mother,” Thor’s voice rumbled.  “If Eir cannot do it, Father must put back what he took.  He cannot intend to kill him.  He did not intend to kill me when he made me mortal.”

“Thor,” Frigga said, voice gentle.  “You have never understood how differently he has treated the two of you.”

“Mother.”  The word was pure frustration.  “You must speak to him.”

“Do you think I have not?”

Thor gave a wordless growl.

“Eir.  You said perhaps?” Frigga said. “If it’s not his magic, what then?”

A brief silence.  “It is my belief the All-Father has taken a process from his Jötunn body that I cannot replace.   He may die without it.   It is my understanding that the Jötnar who came to court long ago bore our climate without complaint, and yet you brought him to me, a mere day after his sentencing, on the verge of death.  Perhaps it is only the shock of adjustment to his true form, and perhaps his body will be able to regulate itself again, given time.”

“But you think otherwise?”

“As you can see he is partially restored now, but he is weakened.  I do not believe I can completely restore his energies.   I do not know how long those energies will last.  I will do what I can.”

Eir did something with her machinery again, and Loki shifted slightly as another current ran through the water.  Someone to Eir’s side lifted one of his arms, coated it with some substance and lowered it gently again.  He felt his body greedily accepting moisture.

“We should have told him,” Mother was saying.  “All those years ago.  We should never have let it go this long.”

Eir’s voice was strong, relentless.  “We neither of us could have defied the King.”

Thor said hotly, “Why did you not tell me?”

Ah.  Interesting.  So Thor had not known.  He had guessed Thor had been kept as ignorant as he, from Thor’s behavior on that Midgard mountain.  But before then he had wondered, and rage had sparked with the wondering, that his _brother_ had also lied to him, _all these years._

“We would not have chosen to tell you alone, and not him first.”

Thor growled at that. 

“I should have spoken to the All-Father more often than I did.  I should have persuaded him,” Mother went on.  “Perhaps if Loki had known the truth about his heritage all along he would have known more about how to **be** Jötunn, and would bear up under this sentence better.”

“Perhaps none of this would have happened at all!” Thor growled.

“We cannot know that,” Eir said.  “But yes, it would have been better if he had known a long time ago.  The suffering of mind he would have experienced then may have healed, given enough time.  Now, I fear, if he survives, his rage will never die.  The Norns have decreed him a hard road indeed.”

“If he survives?” Frigga’s voice held a tiny tremor. “Is there no hope?”

“With time, I might be able to adapt or craft a soul forge capable of balancing his body.  But I do not know if I can have such a thing made in time.”

“I will find anything you need, I will go to the furthest realms to obtain it, if need be!” Thor swore.

“There is no need,” Eir said.  “I have all I need here.  What is needed is the time to do it.  And that you cannot give me.”

Frigga spoke again.  “Is there nothing else you can do?”

“I know so little.  Perhaps he can survive without it, until at least the Allfather chooses to end his sentence.”

“And if the All-Father does not?”  Mother’s voice was a bare whisper

“Then, my Queen, I fear he has been condemned to death after all.”

The room went dead quiet.  He wanted to stir out of the liquid, wanted to protest his fate and embrace it all at the same time.

But he was so tired, and it was all he could do to attend their words.

“The Jötnar relented in their demand for his death as long as he be stripped of his powers and made to suffer.”

“Ah.  My Queen.  He has already suffered for so very long.  And I myself, not understanding his peril, added to his suffering only hours ago.”  There was a long silence.  “It would be best if you took him back to his chambers.  Bring him ice, as much as he desires.  I will consult any sources I can find for what little we know of the Jötnar.  If he weakens again, bring him back to me immediately.”

Darkness kept encroaching and their voices disappeared again into whispers.  The rustle of mother’s clothing.  The sound of her tread, light yet firm, walking past him.  He heard her pull in a deep breath.  Gentle fingers caressed his now-shortened hair, rubbed gently over his now-healed temples.   “My poor boy,” he heard her whisper.  “Do you remember, Eir?  His first illness?  When his dreams became real around him?”

“I do.”  Eir’s voice had softened as well.

“I wanted to protect him from the monsters he so feared.”

“All mothers do.”  Eir’s voice was like a calm pool of water.

“A mage so talented so young.  I knew he was destined for great things.”

“Or terrible things, my Queen.”

Ah, the temerity.  Eir had always possessed that sort of courage.  He floated, and feelings chased through his mind like fish darting through a running stream, flashing bright and then gone.  Frigga’s hand passed over his hair again and withdrew.  He wanted to speak, but no words were there.  Silvertongue gone mute.  He should sorrow at that, but he felt safe here, protected, and if somewhere beneath something was raging, something was ranting, let it be.  Sleep was calling to him, sensation was fading, and it was easy to let go.


	12. Bila (Failure)

“Mother?” he whispered. 

She was standing before him, so still, and why was she so pale?  Her arms were extended, beckoning, and her mouth was open, but she did not move.

“Mother!” he screamed, and everything was so WRONG and he reached out to grasp her arms.

COLD!  Cold and solid, the fabric of her dress stiff and crackling beneath his fingers, and now he saw the ice riming her eyes and lips and the cracked fissures crossing her skin.

“WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?”  Odin roared.

He jerked to his right.  Odin loomed over him, impossibly tall, his single eye blazing with fury and disgust. 

“Father…” His voice was tiny, like a child, and Odin roared with rage.  “Do not call me that, MONSTER!”

Odin thrust out Gungnir toward Frigga.  Panicked, Loki twisted, meaning to protect her, but his outthrust arm impacted her frozen side and she –

Fell -

Shattering –

Into thousands of frozen pieces upon the floor.

He began screaming.  He couldn’t stop.

Clicking and rattling sounds surrounded him.  Heart pounding in grief and horror, he woke with a gasp to sudden darkness.  There was a smooth surface beneath his back, his buttocks, his legs.  As he moved liquid sloshed and small uneven objects all around him bounced off his skin.

He looked around, startled to realize he was back in his tub.  And it was filled with chunks of ice. 

He sucked in breath, the horrific nightmare still with him, combined with vague images of being taken back to his chambers through endless corridors.  The murmur of nearby voices attracted his attention.  The pounding in his heart, his ears, kept him from making out anything other than fragments and disconnected words.  He forced himself to shove his thoughts aside and focused on the sounds.  The world became a bit sharper and he could hear whole sentences at a time. 

“Mother,” Thor was saying.  “The fault is equally mine.  If I had not been so prideful – “

“Son,” Frigga said softly, and Loki inhaled sharply at the sound of her voice, joy and pain and grief tearing at his gut.  “There is so much to regret,” she continued. “So much to mourn.  But when I saw him among the Chitauri, when I knew he lived, when I rejoiced at the knowledge we would be reunited, I knew the time must come when we must put the past in the past.  The Jötnar have demanded their price, and it is now paid.”

“He has paid far more than I!”

Carefully, slowly, trying to make the least amount of noise, Loki slid out of the tub and stood up.  The water sloshed and he held on to the rim for a moment, expecting dizziness, but his head was surprisingly clear.  He took one tentative step, then others.  The air was still unpleasantly hot, but it didn’t sear his lungs, and, while still overwarm, did not give him the sensation of standing too close to a fire.  His skin – now blue not grey – was once again whole, unmarred by the mirror glass cuts.  His face, when he put a tentative hand to it, was completely healed from Odin’s violence.

Mother was still talking to Thor as Loki approached the open doorway.  Now he could see them, standing facing each other at the far end of the room.  There was a strange, unpleasant smell coming from his receiving room which he could not identify.  He drank in the sight of Mother, hale and whole, untouched by his ice or the old man’s wrath.

“Your powers were taken.  His powers have been taken, but he was not banished, as you were.  He suffered that already, and at his own hand.”  Her voice broke, and Thor wrapped an arm around her.  She laid her head briefly against Thor’s shoulder then pulled away.  “Son, he has done far more than you did.  You slew hundreds of Jötnar, but it was in close battle.  He would have slain them all.”

He paused, dripping wet, at the entrance to his bath chamber.  Loki felt anger flare at her words, and for a moment he was there in the Observatory, directing the power of the Bifrost against those monsters and wishing ferociously he had succeeded, because if he had, none of the rest would ever have happened.

 “Close battle,” Thor said, and there was a strange bitter tone in his voice Loki had never heard before.  “When I can slay dozens with one hurl of Mjolnir without even looking in the faces of those I have slain?  Given the chance, I would have killed them all too, Mother.  How many did Father leave alive on his battlefields?”

“You know your place in war, son.  Loki, as King-Regent, made his choice.  As was his right.  But that choice was then undone, and Helblindi’s demands could not be ignored.”

“But for Father to punish him as he did, to make him languish for days and then strip him of all he is in front of the whole court! We know how wrathful he becomes when he is mocked.”

“It is not solely he,” Frigga said gently

Thor had the grace to look abashed even as he responded hotly, “No man can suffer being made a fool.”

“The Jötnar know that full well.”  Thor’s face crumpled in rage and remembrance, and Loki found himself breathing the word, _princess._  

Loki took a half-step out into the room, angered by the conversation they were having behind his back, then suddenly realized he was naked.  He stepped back into the bathing chamber and grabbed a drying cloth.

Frigga was still talking, and he paused in drying himself as she continued, “The Jötnar demanded his punishment be public.  They consider themselves lenient and merciful by not demanding his extended torture and drawn-out death.  They offered that as an alternative.”    

Horrified, Loki froze at that thought that the old man might have considered doing this.

“We did not need to bow to their desires!  Any of them!” Thor said hotly.  “We paid them weregild a thousand times more than custom!   Father made us seem weak.  Father was wrong to do what he did.  He is suffering far more than I did. Punish him, yes, but not make him into something he hates,” Thor said insistently.   

Loki finished drying and looked around for his clothing.  He remembered throwing his breeches in the far corner and strode over to see if they had fallen behind the cabinet.

“I know not what to do for him,” Thor confessed after a moment.  “When he recovers his strength, what is to happen to him?”

“Thor. Eir may not succeed.”

Thor was silent for a moment.  Loki paused in his search, the full extent of his fate crashing in on him.  Thor kept talking, “Is there an answer for him in other realms, then?”

“I know not.”

Loki’s memory cleared and he realized he had been brought back to his chambers while still unconscious.  Someone else must have undressed him and put him into the tub.  Had it been Thor?  Horrified at the idea that Mother might have been present, he looked again around the bath chamber, then went to the cabinet on the far side of the room.  His clothing, folded neatly, was on the top shelf.  Had Mother done that?  Could Jötnar blush? 

He pulled on his breeches, trying to ignore the discomfort of hot cloth against his skin.  About to head back to the sitting room, he stopped dead still, appalled at what he heard Thor saying. 

“I have asked Loki this, many times, and yet he will not answer me.  In your scrying, did you see the face of his master, the one who commanded his actions on Midgard?” 

Breath stuck in Loki’s throat and he reeled in sick disgust, suddenly back on that hideous plateau, that monstrous realm, telling yet more lies to save his own skin.  His own unworthy Jötunn skin.

“I did not,” Frigga said, and Loki forced himself to pay attention to her words.  So that’s how Thor found me?  He had assumed it had been Heimdahl, gaze trained upon Midgard.  That it was his mother who saw where he was filled him with surprise.  “I saw form, but no substance,” Frigga continued.  “Shadows and voices but nothing I understood.  I know not who his master was.”

“And yet he had one.”

“Yes, he did.”

“He did not look hale on Midgard.  Was he controlled by this being?”

“I know not.”

_Stop talking about this, STOP! I don’t want to THINK about –_

Loki strode across the room to the doorway.  Thor, the oaf, kept right on going.  “He did not wish to take the actions he did.  I saw it in his eyes, on the Man of Iron’s tower.  But he will not speak, for his pride.”

“Ah, son,” she said.  “He is not alone in that, for your father, too, lets pride blind him.  For now…”

Thor opened his mouth to reply then said nothing when Loki walked into the room.

“…we must make a feast of what crumbs he gives us, and for now he is giving us the gift of his lack of attention.  May it continue.” Frigga glanced at Thor, then quickly turned and met Loki’s gaze.  A relieved smile brightened her face and she walked toward him, Thor at her side.

Loki gave both of them a cold glare.  “Do not speak behind my back as if I were some object.”

Frigga paused.  “Son.  We are worried about you.” 

Thor stepped toward Loki, lifting a hand as if he meant to help him walk.  Loki veered away to avoid his touch, sneering at the hurt look on Thor’s face.  Though weariness still dragged at his limbs, he bypassed his soft sofas and went to his balcony to sit down on a plain stone bench.

A mistake.  It was too hot out here.  He sat there stubbornly anyway for a moment.  Frigga was watching him and looked concerned.  Suddenly the nightmare image of her frozen body shattering into a thousand pieces seized him again.  He rose, suddenly anxious to be near her, to reassure himself she was hale and whole and not destroyed by his hand, as in his dream. 

Frigga touched his elbow and he flinched.  “Son,” she said, the concern in her eyes deepening.  “Come back inside; I have something for you.”

Shaken, he went back inside.  She glanced at Thor.  “Bring that in, will you?”  She gestured to the bench, and steered Loki back to the table where he occasionally took his meals.  There was a bowl filled with some cloudy stale-smelling liquid on the table, a plate with chilled sliced fruit which smelled sharply unpleasant, a delicately sauced whitefish, as well as two ewers, one filled with some golden liquid, one with water, and two glasses.

“I have been told you are not eating. So I have brought you other foods that have not as yet been offered to you, in hopes you would find something to your liking.”  She looked at him encouragingly.

Thor carried the heavy stone bench to the table and set it down.  Loki considered refusing to sit, but one raised eyebrow from Frigga had him settling down.  She sat in a chair opposite him, Thor standing by her side.  He had felt the first stirrings of hunger earlier, but the sight and smell of the food on the table was repulsive. 

Frigga looked at him encouragingly.  He sighed, and picked up a melon slice, disliking the contrast between its yellow meat and the blue of his skin.  He had always favored these melons, but just the look of it disgusted him now.  He tried to lift it to his lips, but its’ strange metallic scent warned him away.  He dropped it and it landed with a plop upon the table, missing the plate by a hair. 

Loki shoved the fruit dish away in distaste and stared with a jaundiced eye at the soup bowl. 

“Chilled lamb broth,” Frigga explained.  “Please try.”

“I am not a child!” he snapped, irritated by the wheedling tone in her voice, which he hadn’t heard since he’d been three centuries old. 

“Loki, you need to eat.”  That sharper tone was no better; he’d heard it often enough when he’d disobeyed her wishes.

He lifted the bowl, managed one sip, gagged and shoved it away.  He grabbed for a glass and the water ewer, filled it, drank it down, filled it again, and drained the glass dry a second time.  He set the glass down and gave her a level stare.  “I can manage without eating,” he said.  “For a great deal of time, as you well know.”

“Please try,” she urged. 

He considered the whitefish and felt a brief pang of hunger.  He cut a tiny slice, a piece no larger than the nail on his smallest finger and set it in his mouth.  The repulsive taste of spoiled meat hit his tongue and he held a napkin to his lips and spit it out.  “Apologies, Mother,” he said automatically. 

She set her lips together, but what he saw in her eyes was not disappointment but fear.  She poured a glass of golden juice and held it out to him.

He remembered the taste, sunbright, filled with essences of air and pollen and the strength of trees and the good fertile earth, sweet and strong.  One draught was enough to give strength and energy for months.

He didn’t touch it.  “Am I, Jötunn, allowed the bounty of Iðunn’s orchard?”

“It has not been forbidden,” she said carefully.

He took the glass, smooth and warm in his hand.  He put it to his lips.  He tilted it slowly and allowed only a drop to touch his tongue.

It stung!  He had the sudden sensation of his tongue swelling in his mouth and for a moment it was a struggle to breathe.  Rage flared, then an overwhelming sadness, which he pushed away, at his final rejection of the best of all nourishment Asgard had to offer. 

Frigga’s eyes widened.  “Son?” She reached a hand to his face.

Loki pulled back.  Tongue numb, he spoke very carefully, and hating the fact that he sounded as if he were too far in his cups, he managed to force out a few syllables, “What do Jötnar eat?”

There was a tightness around her eyes.  “I do not know.” Loki stared at her, shocked at the despair in her voice. 

“I remember what you said, in Eir’s chamber,” he said slowly enunciating each syllable with care, his tongue still thick in his mouth.  “That Jötnar came to court.  That they wed with Aesir, bore children.  How is that even possible?  Did they attend banquets?  What were they served?”

Shame colored her face.  “I know not.  That was before my time here; those were tales I was told by the older ladies when I first came to court.   I have been quietly asking older members of the court to give me their memories of those days, and they do recall Jötnar attending banquets, but none recalled witnessing them eat, though they all tried to see, out of curiosity.  I do remember hearing that they had special sleeping chambers prepared for them, and their sorcerers kept those cold to their liking.  Perhaps they brought their food with them and ate in private.”

“It matters not.  I wish I knew how my body works.”  He dipped his head, and was suddenly startled by the absence of the weight of his hair.  He remembered, then, the tugging at his hair, the snipping sound, as he lay in the Soul Forge.   He reached up one hand, and ran it over his head, crown to nape, and found his hair had been cut to collar length, as he had worn it before Thor’s coronation. 

Before, when he had known who he was.

Before, when he had been ignorant of _what_ he was.

He fingered the stubble at his temples, then glared at Frigga.  “Do you think I will grow horns, like those beasts?” he asked thickly.

She startled, pressed her lips together, then said after a moment, “Only some Jötnar have horns.  I do not know why.”

“Would you care to wager if I am one of those?”  Bitterness laced his voice.  “You may wager against and I will wager for.” 

“Loki…” she stretched a hand toward him.  He pressed at his temples as his head began throbbing.  Thor was staring at him with pity.  Furious, he leapt to his feet and, resisting the temptation to strike Thor, stalked back to his bath chamber.  He averted his gaze when mother and Thor came in.  “Leave me be,” he mumbled.

“Loki,” Thor began, reaching out as he always did, ready to caress his hair, his neck, to lean their foreheads together.   Wanting that touch more than anything and hating himself for wanting it, he stepped to one side before Thor could touch him.  The ghost of a touch caressed his skin as Thor’s fingers, a hair’s breadth away from the nape of his neck, stirred the air and glowed hot against his skin.   Thor’s face twisted in sorrow, and Loki, at once angry and pleased at the pain in Thor’s eyes, gave him a harsh smile.  He opened his mouth, ready to snarl out cutting words, but Frigga, stepping closer, leveled a warning look at him and he shut his mouth again.

“Son,” she said, and he kept his expression blank though he wanted to scream at the word.  “I will go again to speak with the other women of the court.  I will find the answer.”

“If not even Eir knows, how could anyone else?”

Her eyes grew overbright, but her voice was steady.  “Eir does not know all.” 

“I could go to Jotunheim.  Someone there must know the answer.” Thor looked so ready for the prospect Loki expected his armor to materialize around him in the next instant.

“Thor!”  Frigga’s eyes flashed.  She took a quick step toward Thor, raising her hand.  “I forbid it!”

Loki, appalled, as much terrified at the prospect of his brother’s death as furious at his stupidity, demanded, “What, do you expect to just go up to one of them and ask for help for the man who slew their king? You who murdered how many of them?” His speech was still slurred but he put as much sarcasm as he could in his tone.

Frigga was glaring up into Thor’s face.  “Haven’t you learned anything?  I will not have you throwing your life away!  No one there is going to help you.  And even if by some chance you got back from Jotunheim without committing murder or getting yourself killed, what do you think your father would do?  It was Midgard the last time – if he shows you any mercy at all, it will be the dungeon.”

Loki recognized her tone – he’d heard it often enough when they’d been caught in some dangerous stunt – but now her voice held even more fear.

“We need to do _something!”_ Thor insisted.

“We need to think and plan,” Frigga countered.  She laid her hand on Thor’s elbow and tugged slightly.  He gave Loki one last despairing look and then turned and followed their mother out of his chambers. 


	13. Ver-gjǫrn (Lustful, eager for men)

Finally, all was silence.  Loki snarled, let go of the reins holding his thoughts until they were wildly circling in his head again.  Fragments of images – the endless agony of the fall – the scepter in his hands; its seductive whisper in his ears – standing on Stark’s tower – Thor’s tears as he lied about Odin’s death – kneeling before the Mad Titan – flamed through his mind like Surtr’s demons.  He paced around the room like the caged beast that he was, wanting to run, wanting to destroy, wanting to escape his skin, wanting for it all to just end.

The numbness and tingling in his mouth and tongue finally began to dissipate.  He started laughing without thinking and then, startled by the sound, laughed only the louder until he was gasping for air.  He leaned against the wall, then slid to the floor, suddenly exhausted, thoughts fragmenting and stilling.   

He considered going back into the tub, but a quick glance showed all the ice had melted and the surface itself, still as glass, reflecting the chamber’s nebulae-painted ceiling, held no invitation.  His lungs ached with every breath of the stifling air.  Exhaustion claimed him and he lay flat on the floor.  He could still feel the almost-imprint of Thor’s hand at the back of his neck, as he had felt it so many times.  He should have let Thor touch him; it felt as if he had.  That large strong hand, holding him possessively close; those eyes bluer than any sky had a hope of being, laughing with him, laughing at him, holding him too close as if they were the same person.  And yet he always the lesser part, the unheard voice, the unseen hand, the walker in shadow.

His eyes fluttered closed.  They were lying naked near a riverbank, lying in the grass, still shuddering from the remnants of ecstasy, welcoming the easy slide into sleep, while around them flowers of yellow and amber and bronze rioted up the sides of the tall, overarching trees above, and the sky above them was nearly as blue as Thor’s eyes.

He forced his eyes open at the fragment of a dream.  Memory.  Memory false as any dream.  How beautiful that warm day had been.  How perfect.  Now he knew the monster that lay beneath his skin.  The monster that _was_ his skin.  His skin, near the color of that sky, on that splendid, perfect, day.  The air had been delightfully warm then. Now, he gasped in breaths of overwarm air, a monster shriveling in light and heat. 

He moved to another slightly cooler piece of floor and lay flat, thinking of that river, thinking of being carried away by its icy water.

He had stood at the top of the rocky cliff and looked at the deep pool at the base of the waterfall.  A second later, he dived, Thor following, the cliffs echoing with their laughter.  He hadn’t been afraid of falling, then.

Then, he’d gasped in shock at the icy kiss of the water as he’d plunged in deep, sinking into darkness and strange muffled sounds and the feel of air bubbles all around him escaping to the sky.  Finally he’d halted, then arrowed his way back to the surface.  Reaching out, he had clasped a submerged rock to keep the icy current from dragging him further down the river, and watched through the water droplets clinging to his eyelashes as Thor jumped in, feet first, sending a mighty splash of water over every part of the lake.

Thor had popped through the surface blowing out breath.  Looking around, he spotted Loki, who gave him a lazy smile.  When Thor, with a great whoop, struck out toward him, Loki, in one fluid act of will shifted into salmon form and wove himself sinuously beneath the surface.  Now one with the current, he darted past other bright-sided fish, gills taking in all he needed.   There, ahead of him, a bright flash.  A sudden wave of hunger seized him; ravenous as if he were composed of nothing but the need to eat.  He shot forward, his purposeful orchestra of sight and muscle as instinctive as if he had lived in this form all his days.  He swallowed the smaller fish that he had spotted, and then another, until a strong hand caught hold of his tail and pulled him back.

Wriggling and thrashing, he slid from Thor’s grip, his powerful muscles arrowing him along the current, the water itself his ally, while behind him Thor splashed and cursed and laughed and followed.

Racing straight for the shore, at the last possible second he transformed into a swift mountain cat and climbed the rocky cliff as if he were running along flat land.  At the top he transformed again and sat wet and grinning, watching as his brother hauled himself up and over, eyes sparkling with delight.  Thor tackled him, and though he could easily have evaded the expected move he let Thor push him back into the long grasses, Thor’s wet body against his, Thor claiming his mouth with a rough and passionate kiss.

He was already achingly hard.  He thrust up against Thor and dug his hands into Thor’s massive shoulders, then scratched along his back.  Thor was rutting against him, kissing him messily.  Loki twisted and bit kisses along Thor’s neck, then rubbed his face against Thor’s beard, loving the burn. 

Thor pinned him down and he thrashed like a wild thing, escaping his grasp and teasing, making Thor pin him again and again.  Displaying his neck, he hissed in pleasure as it was bitten.  Watching out of slitted eyes as Thor captured his mouth again, Thor’s tongue tracing his lips, opening his mouth only to bite, excited by the taste of his blood. 

Pulling his legs back; Thor had them over his shoulders an instant later.  Thor didn’t hesitate, seating himself in one movement; Loki already magically ready for him.  Filled hard and fast as Thor thrust and thrust again, feeling the drag of that huge cock inside him, hitting that perfect spot sparking bright flashes of pleasure.  Gasping out encouragement and curses and wordless sounds.  Pumping his own cock while Thor, making animal sounds, labored over him, their bodies slick with sweat, hands grasping, sliding. Thor’s hands sparking electricity along Loki’s skin as he came; an instant later Thor following.  Collapsing against the grass, Thor still bent over him, brushing quick, soft kisses against his eyelids and mouth before collapsing against him in the grass, fingers of one hand entwining with Loki’s.

Loki’s eyes flew open and he stared up at the bathing chamber’s ceiling.  He sucked in breath and sat up.  He lifted one blue hand to his face and brushed away tears, loathing his descent into sentimentality.  His cock, half-hard, begged for attention.  He grabbed it angrily, squeezed it until the pain blanked out the thoughts of all the things he would never have again. 

He let go and collapsed back on the floor.

On the ceiling above, the painted nebulae mocked him in its perfection.  Beautiful as it was, it would never capture the glory of Asgard’s night skies, thick with brilliant stars and swirled with nebulae cloud.   He and Thor had often seen them from their favorite place in the mountains.  There would be a cool breeze there now, and the headspring of the river would be close by, and he could bathe in it, in the cold cold water.

He stood up and moved to his sitting chamber.  He was hungry.  Ravenous.  The dishes Frigga had caused to be brought were all gone, their unpleasant stench still filling the air, and he turned away, stomach clenching.   He couldn’t eat any of that.  _What **did** Jötnar eat?  How could it be that none of them knew?_

He flung out his hands and if he’d had his magic the blast would have brought the ceiling down, all the beautiful pieces turned into so much dust.

Another wave of exhaustion pulled at him.  Would Eir come again?  He’d felt so much better after her treatment.  Hatred blazed against Odin, the cause of all his problems, the one who had done this thing to him.  Who had damaged his Jötnar body so much that he might die from it.  He forced back despair by fixing the old man’s face before his eyes.

Fire.  Flames.  They were all too easy to imagine now.  Heat, crackle, water boiling, vanishing into steam.  And Odin in all of it.

Screaming!

His lips tugged into a smile.  He closed his eyes, thinking again of the battle on Muspelheim years before and imagining Odin in the middle of the fighting instead of sitting safe at home on the throne.  Surtr himself, towering high above them.  Loki imagined his flaming hand grabbing the old man, lifting him high up into the air.  The image of Odin in Surtr’s fiery grip shot threads of pleasure through his mind.  Odin’s flailing body, shackled in inescapable flame, screaming in agony as the giant’s touch seared him, roasted him, melting the flesh from his bones, reducing him to ash.

He made Odin whole again in his mind, and cast about for some new torture to inflict.

There.  Odin surrounded by howling demons who lifted huge vats of molten metal and poured it over him;  his skin crackled and seared and smoked as Odin screamed and screamed –

Odin, struggling in metal chains which melted and reformed around flesh burned to the bone as Surtr’s demons surrounded him, tearing his flesh with heated metal tools and the screaming of the old man went on and on and –

What was that noise?

Annoyed by the interruption of his pleasant fantasies, he slit his eyes open, then managed to keep from smirking at the sight of Thor, burdened like a commoner by huge pails of ice suspended from a bar he bore on his shoulders.  Thor didn’t glance at him, but went straight to the tub and poured each pail of ice inside it, the chunks rattling together as they bobbed on the surface.

He closed his eyes hastily to pretend sleep as Thor turned in his direction.  The sound of Thor’s footsteps and the steady rhythm of his breathing were such common, familiar things. So many times they had slept together.  Woken together.  Some unwanted feeling flickered through him; he forced it away.  He did not want to see Thor.  He didn’t want to be seen by Thor.  The drag of his memories, their seductive pull into the past, only sharpened the contrast with his current reality.  He didn’t want the poison of Thor’s pity to add to his torment.

The footsteps stopped.  He knew Thor was looking down at him, and he forced himself to keep his eyes closed, even when the movement of the air told him Thor had crouched down beside him.

_Go away_ , he thought.

Thor, not being privy to his thoughts, slid one arm under his knees and the other one behind his back.

Loki flailed, broke Thor’s grip, and was on his feet an instant later.  Thor backed up, holding up his hands, palms outward.

“Afraid of the ice beast?” Loki sneered, and took pleasure at the pain on Thor’s face.  He only wished the sight gave him more pleasure than it did.

“Brother, I have brought you ice,” Thor said.

Loki sighed theatrically.  “I heard that very well,” he said ungraciously and stepped into the tub.

“And yet you held with your pretense.” Thor sat down on the floor, looking as if he planned to stay for awhile.

Loki paused, standing in the tub.  “Now what are you doing?”

Thor shrugged.  “I wished to speak with you.”

Loki huffed out a breath and lowered himself into the tub, the water sloshing around him.  “I do not wish to speak with you,” he said, shutting his eyes.  And opened them a moment later.  Thor hadn’t moved.

“What?” Loki demanded. 

Thor stood up, shoulders as bowed as if he still carried the burden of the buckets of ice.  “I wish there was more I could do for you.”

“There is.”  Loki lifted his chin, and smiled at the way Thor’s face brightened.  “You can leave.”

Thor pulled back and gave him a dark look.  “Rest now, brother.  But I still wish to speak to you.”

Loki shut his eyes and waved dismissively.  “Stop calling me brother.  Unless you wish to be the one known for telling lies.”

He waited.  And waited.  And finally heard Thor’s footsteps walking away.

And when darkness settled on his mind again he tried to force it back to satisfying images of Odin in agony.  Yet his mind persisted in bringing other images.  Thor’s mouth on his mouth.  Thor’s mouth on his cock.  Their hands digging into each other’s flesh, as if there was some way to be ever closer to each other, some way to fight past this barrier of flesh and mind, and if not then let the understanding be in forbidden lust.

They used to boast to each other of their conquests.  Girls, of course, the daughters and nieces of nobleman and guests from other Realms.  No need to wonder at why girls sought him out, a second son was still a Prince, and they all hoped for the best marriage possible.  Those others – the stable boy – the Alfheim ambassador’s son – were none he could mention to any other than Thor.  He enjoyed the flash of jealousy in Thor’s eyes.  Thor would only admit to women, boastful, prideful, bragging about taking some woman’s maidenhead even as their bodies tangled lustfully together, their mouths tasting and biting, their hands clutched bruisingly against flesh, cocks hard to bursting. Thor, recounting everything he had done to the woman, doing the same, or nearly so, to Loki’s body.  And he, helpless, spilling in ecstasy and jealous anger, then lying still, catching his breath, hiding his emotions, legs over Thor’s shoulders while Thor pounded into him and then shouting his release. 

He slept, woke, slept again, and all his dreams were of Thor’s hands on his skin, Thor’s cock impaling him, spilling as he screamed Thor’s name –

But at the edges of waking and sleeping he heard The Other’s insidious whisper telling him of his brother’s treachery, his family’s betrayal –

There was that sound again.  He didn’t open his eyes this time, aware that most of the ice had melted away, aware that he was hard, aware that Thor would see.  He would say he dreamed of another.  He would say –

Thor’s hands threaded in his hair, gentle, nails scratching at his scalp.  He heard the sound of something entering the water, the faint slap of the water as it withdrew, and then a large hand pressed a chunk of ice against his forehead.  Loki sighed in pleasure at the cool touch.  Thor’s other hand left his hand, descended to his shoulder.  Loki placed his hand over Thor’s, squeezed the fingers.  Then took in a breath, and slowly let his hand slide back into the water.

“Brother, can we not speak now?”

“We have nothing to say to each other, Thor,” Loki said softly, not turning to look at him.

“Brother – ”

Enraged, Loki leapt from the tub, whirled, stepped forward and thrust his face toward Thor, who took an involuntary step back.  Loki let out an angry sound as he straightened.  Then stopped, furious at what he saw in Thor’s face.

Thor was staring at his cock, which was still half-hard.  Thor’s gaze trailed back up his body, pausing at his chest, then his mouth, then met his furious gaze.

“Disgusted?”  Loki smiled and stepped an inch closer, but Thor did not retreat this time, nor did he look away.  His face, normally so simple it only held one expression at a time, now warred between sorrow and desire and confusion and anger.

Before, during bedsport, that face had held desire and sometimes playfulness, and sometimes the need to dominate.

Now… Thor’s hands on his blue skin?  Taking his Jötunn cock in his Aesir mouth?  How could he even –

Loki backed up again and stretched out his arms, the better to display himself.  “Does it make you sick to look at me?  Look at what you have taken to your bed **_all these years?_** Would you touch me now?”

Thor’s gaze explored his body again.  Loki, heart pounding, resisted the temptation to hide his erection with his hands.  But when Thor lifted his gaze and met Loki’s eyes again the only expression left on his face was lust, and when he looked down, the fabric at Thor’s crotch was tented out.  Thor swallowed thickly.  “I would.”

Loki stared, speechless, and then volcanic fury erupted.  “Is this your pity?  That none else would bed me?”  He laughed bitterly.  “Ah, Thor, how could you want to touch a filthy thing like me?  Better you should go lie with the beasts in the stable than with me.”

Thor sighed.  “I am not good with words, brother.  You have always known that.  Can you not trust I love and want you still?”  Thor closed the space between them and reached to embrace him. 

Loki, near blind with rage and grief, shoved him back so hard Thor impacted the wall.

Thor righted himself instantly, fists clenching, and let out a frustrated sigh.  “Can we not – ?”

“Get out GET OUT **GET OUT!!!!”** Loki screamed, pointing both hands at Thor, instinctively trying to form ice weapons.

Thor backed away from him, eyes huge and pleading.  “Brother – ”

Loki advanced on him, eyes blazing.  Thor reluctantly turned and left, but paused at the door to look over his shoulder back at him.

Loki turned his back.  Then, finally, he was alone.


	14. Hungr (Starvation)

Shaking with rage, Loki stalked around his chambers, ending up in his bedchamber, filled with a desperate craving for what he had lost.   His armoires remained against the wall but he could tell they had been moved in his absence.  Anything he had hidden there that could be seen would certainly have been removed.  And anything that couldn’t be seen… 

He went to the wall nearest his bed and ran his fingers against the smooth stone, seeking for the slightest trace, the slightest hum of energy, of seiðr, the slightest shift in the magic he had laid over all he had hidden there.

Nothing. 

And yet he knew they were there – dozens of magical objects he had bespelled and hidden in secret compartments in the walls all about his chambers, areas warded to disguise even the presence of seiðr so thoroughly that none but himself should know of their existence. 

Could they have found them?  Surely the old man had brought in völur and seiðmenn to search his chambers and remove any sorcerous objects they found.

But had Odin’s lackeys found what he had concealed?

He was the best seiðrmauer in Asgard, and yet –

He stared at the shadowed walls and ran his fingers over the invisible outline of one niche.  He knew where they all were.  The words of the unlocking spells that would allow him access to the contents blazed in his mind.  He spoke them aloud, but he might as well have been singing some puerile drinking song.  He sought within, dredging and clawing as he sought one last spark of his magic.  Nothing **nothing** **NOTHING!**

Howling, he beat his fists against the unyielding wall, its secrets – either his treasures or ransacked empty niches – as hidden from him as if he were nothing but an untutored child.  Finally, drained of strength, he staggered and leaned forward against the wall, wanting to beat his skull against it to blot out the vast emptiness inside himself.  All his spell words – just noise, useless to him; spell words spoken without seiðr behind them might as well be servant’s gossip, of no consequence to anything.

Sucking in breath, he began searching through the armoires and then through his chests for anything that might possibly be of use to him, such as a stray knife or pieces of old armor.  So much was missing.  Odin had clearly had his possessions thoroughly searched and anything that possibly might give him any advantage had been confiscated.  He found nothing but clothing and meaningless objects, tokens from lovers who hoped for royal favor, and a scabbard he’d stolen from Sif when she’d mocked him for his unmanliness, claiming she was a far better man than he.  He’d cast a spell to dull all her blades, and had been punished for it for potentially endangering her in battle even though Asgard was at peace and the only purpose for her weapons was for her to strut around and posture and play at war in the practice yards with those other fools Thor called friends.

He paced his bedchamber, and then moved over to his bookshelves.  His books had been shuffled, disordered, and misplaced on the wrong shelves.  He spent some time looking through the titles.  Nothing appeared to be missing.  He gathered up several books, simple ones he had read when he was first practicing seiðr, then sat down at his reading table and read and read.  And tried, over and over again, to cast the simplest spell, and each attempt left him aching with the hollowness inside, the emptiness.

How cruel, that the Allfather had left him with his books; that he could read of seiðr but not wield it; remind himself of the words of spells but not be able to speak them with Power. 

How cruel, to taunt him with what had been stolen from him.

“Thrice-damned to you, All-Father níðingr!” he shouted to the silence, and hoped those vile ravens were listening.

Many hours later, he threw the last of the books he had chosen to the floor.  Getting up, he was surprised to see by the light that night had come and gone and it was already into a new day. His skin itched and he was ravenous – more hungry than he had ever been in his life.

What **did** Jötnar eat anyway?

He pulled more books off his shelves.  These were ancient tomes, histories of Jotenheim he’d devoured after the revelation in the vault, hoping to learn something, anything of use to him, then he’d thrown them aside in favor of researching shapeshifting spells, ways to transform himself into Aesir, permanently and forever.  But there had been no answer.

There had to be something here, though, about Jötnar biology.  How _had_ they existed here, for even a short time?  He knew time was short, the heat was bearing down oppressively again, and still no answers.

He paged through any book that referenced the war, hoping to find in military strategy discussion of Jötnar bodies, but aside from saying how to kill them, these books were empty of any useful information.

He slammed down the last one and got up.  He strode to the entrance of his chamber.  If there was anything he could eat in this golden shell of rot, he’d find it.  He opened his door.  There were guards outside, where there hadn’t been before.  Of course, after his encounter with the old man, it was unsurprising Odin would confine him here under guard.  They watched him with level eyes and said nothing.

Neither did he.  He strode out and didn’t wait for them to haul him back inside.  Squinting against the brighter light in the corridor he turned left and headed down the hall, as if he were still a Prince and they still his servants.  His shoulders itched in anticipation of them laying hands on him.  To his surprise they did not, but rather followed a few steps behind him.  He moved ahead, filled with rage and unappeased hunger, while ahead of him those few in the corridors scurried out of his way, their fearful, contemptuous, hateful eyes searing him as he passed.

He could smell the kitchens long before he arrived through the byzantine corridors of the lower palace, the repulsive odor of roasting meats, hangikjöt and boar and venison and fowl and kine and fish, and vegetables of all kinds stinking of Asgardian dirt, fruits smelling of rot, skyr and cheese smelling of the foul milk of the beasts from which they were made, and the burned odor of laufabrauð  and other breads and sweet cakes and pastries.  It was all he could do to walk through the door, his stomach was clenched so tightly with nausea.

Shattering glass and the ringing sound of metal on stone flooring greeted him.  A young woman stared at him in shock over the tray she’d dropped to the floor when she’d caught sight of him.  When he took another step into the room she backed away from him, the breads scattering crumbs while preserves spread sticky trails on the floor before her.

He sketched an ironic bow to her, and looked around to his audience of kitchen workers, faces full of horror, disgust, and anger, all backing away from him.  The steam rising from the cookpots on the stoves was chokingly thick and sent stabs of pain through his lungs.  The meats roasting in great fireplaces, and the vats of stews and soups cooking on the various stoves, combined in a cloying stink, far worse than it had been outside.  He nearly turned and left.

But there was something… some tantalizing odor…

There was Mabb, standing behind the chief baker, her pure white hair having lost all traces of its former gold.  He stopped in surprise.  She deliberately met his gaze, then slowly turned her head, glancing toward a side pantry.  She looked back at him, then walked away, into the room she had indicated.  Once inside, she disappeared from sight around the door.

He looked away from that direction and made a deliberate circuit around the first large chamber as everyone present cringed away from him.  He made a show of looking into cupboards and on shelves and in pots, and then stepped into the side pantries one after the other, making a point to linger in each.  He heard unsettled mutters every time he stepped inside a different one, but none had the temerity to investigate his actions.

All the while his mind was filled with visions of Mabb, from centuries ago.  She’d always worked in the kitchens and always had a liking for him, after she’d first caught him, when he’d barely come up to her waist, sneaking into the bakery and stealing pastries for himself and Thor.  She hadn’t yelled or gone to his mother; instead she’d taken to saving the best pastries for him alone and surreptitiously passing them along to him with a wink and a smile. 

He in return, when he was older and could freely roam outside in increasingly greater distances, had brought to Mabb the white mountain flowers she used for the wines she made.  She had given this wine freely to him, and he still recalled the taste, tart and sparkling on his tongue, speaking of the free air of the mountains, floating above earthier liquors. 

He had a sudden sharp wish he could be that child again, unknowing of everything that lay ahead, happy in his plots and pranks and studies, unaware yet that all he loved to learn and do would set him apart from other men forever.  Unaware that all his choices would earn him the disregard of all who told him he would never be a man like his brother, never be valued as a warrior, doomed to be an ergi scholar, less than the women.

Unaware of the **_thing_** beneath his skin.

Finally, he reached the pantry Mabb had disappeared into.  He walked in exactly as he had the others and perused the tables and shelves before him, hung or laden with smoked or salt-preserved fish. 

But there, on the table, were fresh-caught fish, already gutted and filleted, ready for cooking.  His stomach seized with hunger at the sight of them.

Mabb’s voice came from behind the half-closed door.  He did not turn to look at her.

Her voice was a bare whisper.  “Jötnar eat raw fish.  It is what we served to them in their cold chambers, along with winter greens from the mountains, in the days when their ambassadors were still received here.  They brought their own food, mostly, but we have no other of their food here.  They much savored the coldstream fish.”

He inclined his head slightly, as if he were simply taking a closer look at the fish displayed before him, then took up the fish and several others, placing them in one of the wooden carriers stacked up in the rear.

“Thank you,” he whispered before he turned.  Their eyes met briefly and he gave her a tiny bow, then he looked away again quickly, the sight of her apologetic face, wrinkled as a fallen forgotten apple, so much older than he remembered, burned on his vision.  _When had she grown so old?_

He walked past her without looking in her direction.  Outside, he made a point of meeting the gaze of everyone there.  They had all retreated to the further side of the large area, and all were watching him with huge fearful eyes.  None moved as he departed.

The hallways emptied of people before him as he walked back to his chambers, followed by his guards.  He paid them little mind, now starving with need for what he carried with him, hands trembling as he clutched the carriers tightly.  He stepped inside, shut the door behind him, and placed the carrier on his table.  He seated himself on the stone bench, opened the carrier, and pulled out the first fish.

He ate it quickly – so quickly it seemed he had scarce begun before he was done.  He could feel the changes in his body, its acceptance of something it _needed._   He ate the second fish more slowly, enjoying the smooth firm texture, the silky feel of it as it dissolved in his mouth.  He admired the third before he bit into it, and every bite he took felt right, felt as if he were truly at home in this body for the first time.

A slight thread of disgust hit him at this small capitulation.  He pushed it aside.  He felt stronger.  It was an advantage, and he would seize any he could find.

After he finished the final bite – and looked with regret at the now-empty carrier – anger filled him again.  _Did the old man **know** he couldn’t eat Aesir food?  Was this yet one more of his torments?  _He brought his vision of Odin in Surtr’s clutches to mind.  _That WILL happen to you, old man.  I so swear it!_


	15. Ván (Hope)

He was seated at a study table when Frigga arrived that evening bearing a large platter of raw fish, skillfully cut apart into small artful chunks.

She placed it on the table and sat across from him, her face stricken, lines drawn between her brows.  “Mabb told me…”  She paused, then started again.  “I heard you went to the kitchens.  I went to question the cooks and servants.  She slipped past me when I went into the bakery and whispered that Jötnar need to eat raw fish.” 

“Is Mabb safe?”

“I have taken her from the kitchens and made her one of my personal attendants.”

He lowered his gaze.  “She gave me cakes when I was a child.”  His voice was hoarse.  He stopped in surprise for having spoken at all.

She was startled.  “I did not know.”

He stared past her shoulder.  “She caught me stealing honey cakes.  So she saved them for me.  I made pretty flowers for her.  She called me _skatten min_ —“ He shut his mouth and fisted his hands.

She brushed his knuckles with her fingertips and he reared back.  “You were always a treasure to me as well, my dear.” 

“Does your husband know you brought me these?” He gestured to the fish.

“He does not mean for you to die.”

He made a disbelieving sound.  “I had thought he would sentence me to death.  I was right.  He just meant it to be slow.”

“I asked him for your life.”

He stared at the floor.  “I know.  I heard.  You should not have, my Queen.”

“I could not let you die, my son.”

Again she reached for him; again he jerked back from her touch.  “You should consider your own position here.”

“I have considered my position here. I know what to say and when to say it.” Her tone was decisive. “We may speak as we like here, in your chambers, as the wards of secrecy you once placed on your chambers still hold, and I have added mine to strengthen them.”

“None of that will protect you from his wrath. You must stop taking risks for me,” he said urgently.

She lifted her eyebrows. “I am your mother and your Queen, and I will do as I please.” He huffed, and she continued, “I am to tell you that you have been banned from the kitchens.”

“How petty of Odin,” he hissed.

“You frightened the kitchen staff.”

“I frighten everyone.”  He turned his head up, bringing his Jötunn face close to hers.

She gave him an exasperated look.  “Wards have been put up to prevent you entering there.  My servants will bring you raw fish every day.  Mabb has told me there are plants you can eat, and I will send someone to the mountains to bring them.” She settled herself down near him, brought her hands upturned from her sides, circled them and clasped her hands together.  She spoke in a lower tone, but one with less fear, “But for now I know fish is best fresh from the stream.  The air is cooler there, and the water is very cold.” 

He thought of the icy stream, ice-melt water rushing swift from the mountaintop past the palace and to the sea.  He longed for it, and burned with anger for Frigga at this tantalizing glimpse of what he could not have, at this reminder that he was unable to leave the confines of the palace.  But she was still speaking.  “I have extended the wards for you.  Just past the stream, just up to the first bend.  It would be good for you to bathe there.”

“Have a care, my Queen,” he whispered, gaze fixed upon the floor, full of the pain of his love of her and his fear for her.  “You should take no risks for me.”

“The wards will extend when you go there and retreat when you return.  No one here will detect what I have done.  I have long since learned my husband is unaware of some of my most discreet spellcasting.”  She stretched out one hand, palm down on the table, close enough for him to touch it.  His fingers twitched, but he moved it no further, and presently she drew in her breath, pulled back her hand, and arose.

“I will say this every day for all the years of my life.  You are my son, no less so than Thor.  You are my son, as much as if I bore you.  And I love you and wish these burdens removed from you.  I will do all I can to protect you.  In time…”

“You lied to me,” he said, but his voice was drained of emotion.  “I always knew you were lying to me.”

“Always?  Surely not,” she said.

“No.  I didn’t know – this!”  He thrust up one blue-skinned arm.  “But I knew you were not my parents.  Not the both of you.  The evidence was in my mirror.  I look nothing like either of you.  I didn’t need to hear any of the whispers.  All any had to do was look at me.  You surely heard the stories.”

She inclined her head.  “Loki…”

He barked a harsh laugh, but didn’t look at her.  “I had only one question.  Whose?  Was I Odin’s by-blow that he forced into your arms, or had you cuckolded him?  I looked into the face of every dark-haired man who came to court, whether Vanir or Alf; I looked at every dark-haired Aesir.  I must admit, my Queen, I favored that explanation.  For I always felt… I was your son.  I had your skills, after all; had them before you began teaching me how to use them.”

She settled a hand gently on his shoulder.  “You…”  Her voice cracked, like ice when a footstep hits it with too much force.  “…were a good student.  You had these inborn skills.  I only had to show you the way, teach you the words, the forms, the techniques.” 

He shuddered and struggled to feel nothing, reached for rage because it was easier by far than grief.  “But I thought, by-blow or not, that this was my home.  It did explain – much.  But to accept as a son the child of your greatest enemy?  Did you not – for one moment – resent the burden he placed upon you?  Did the court not gossip?How did you bear being thought fool or faithless?”

She froze her face into a mask of composure; perfectly the Queen.  “Gossip is the chatter of fools.”

And yet he saw beneath, and he knew only too well how words could destroy, and he knew that she had suffered.  For him.  He looked down.  “I have said cruel words to you.  I would unsay them, if I could.”

She patted his hand, and he looked up again, finally able to look past the bitterness blinding him and see the love in her eyes.  “Loki, do not lose hope.  We are looking for ways to help you.”

“What help is there?”

“You have always been so clever, so brilliant at seeing possibilities.   But others can see more than the surface as well.  You are not alone in this. Now, there is something I must do.”

She stood, and he did as well.

“I will return soon, “ she said, and with one last pat on his hand, she left.

 


	16. Ór-lausn (Help in difficulty)

Throwing a book down, Loki heaved a disgusted breath.  He had been searching through his spellbooks again to see if there was anything he had missed.  He was certain one of them must contain some minor spell that could be performed by someone without magic that would act as key to his prison.   There were very few books left to go through.  He picked one up, an ancient Alfheim treatise on magical training for children, but had barely cracked it open, allowing the images inside to welcome him, when his head snapped up at the sound of his door opening. 

And there was Thor.  With Mjolnir, no less.  Thor had a strangely cautious look on his face.

“Back again?  Planning to use that on me?”  Still scraped raw from their last encounter, he stood up too quickly and inhaled too much heated air.  Despite a wave of dizziness he kept his balance.  Weakness tugged at his limbs, but he refused to give in and sit back down again.  Anger at his own weakness and at Thor for being Thor guiding his words, he growled, “Or are you fresh back from battle and wish to brag about your prowess?”

Instead of the expected anger, Thor merely looked irritated.  But Mother stepped in after him, and her face betrayed such complex emotions of hope and fear, almost perfectly concealed under a mask of calm, that his next words died on his tongue. 

She came directly to him and took his hands.  The warmth of her skin was painful, and yet he would not let go for a long moment.  “My son.  I see you at your studies.  I, too, have been studying - not in the past, but in the possible.”

“Have you been scrying?  Weaving?”

“No, my son.  I have been seeking for the answer unseen.  I have been spellcrafting.”

His eyebrows rose.  It was one thing to follow the wisdom of the ancients and cast cantrips and spells long known for their efficacy.  It was another thing entirely to take that knowledge and build it into something new.  Spellcrafting required great power and skill.  He burned with curiosity.  “What have you done?”

Instead of answering, she turned to Thor and pointed to one of Loki’s smaller tables, a circular one, now empty of the trophy it had contained.  “Place her there.”

Thor set Mjolnir in the indicated place.  Loki, eyes narrowed, studied his face.  Thor held his gaze for a moment, before looking away.  Was that shame he saw there?  Or simply frustration, because Thor for once had not gotten his own way?

“Take hold of her handle,” Frigga directed Thor.  “Come closer, Loki.”

He stepped to her side, and she arranged them so that he and Thor were facing each other across the small table, and she between them.  She placed one hand on Thor’s, wrapping her small fingers around his, even as his were wrapped around Mjolnir’s handle.

She pulled in the deepest of breaths, held it, and placed her other hand on Mjolnir’s head. 

Her eyes slid shut.  Shuddering violently, she rocked on her heels and when her eyes opened they had grown lightning bright.  The air shifted, stirred, as if a great storm was on the way.

She turned her storm-gaze to Loki.  “What working will you do?” Loki breathed, thrilled he could at least _feel_ the presence of seiðr, and this was powerful magick indeed.

Frigga hummed, and another voice beneath hers echoed her tone, droning and guttural and utterly unhuman.  “I have been to the Vault.  I have touched the Casket.”

“Mother!” he said urgently.

Her laughter tinkled, dancing over the harmony beneath her words.  Her eyes shone with fierce bright power.  Her fingers curled against Thor’s hand, Mjolnir’s head, and relaxed again.  “Do not fear; I know how to ward.”

She turned her head to Loki.  Her smile was that of his mother; her eyes held something more elemental.  “I saw the Casket’s energy many years ago in the Vault, when the All-Father brought it, and you, to us.  I saw its power, the endless freezing winter it held.  I heard its song, the sound of cold wind and the groan of glaciers moving, and the sound of Aesir blood freezing.  I saw the hands of all who held it, Laufey, and his forebear, and his before him, all the way back to the time of Bergelmir, your most distant ancestor of the ice.  And she,” Frigga brushed her fingertips lovingly over Mjolnir’s head, “resided there with it and heard its songs and knows it well.  Knows it and sang her songs to it in return.  Son,” she said to Loki, “Place your hand over mine.” 

He did so, suddenly filled with a fierce hope that touching her hand as it touched Mjolnir would unleash the sorcery bound within him.  But all he felt was the heat of her flesh and he swallowed against ridiculous disappointment. 

Frigga began to sing.  Her voice began arching up and up, twining and spinning and weaving a tale made with words he could not understand.  But there was rhyme and there was pattern, and as her voice dropped and rose and she lifted her head and closed her eyes she sang in a voice more powerful by the instant.  The deeper voice droned beneath her melody, harmony to her song. 

Light flickered, then shuddered, faster and faster, bright, then dark, then bright again until he only saw his mother’s face in brief instants.  Lightning flashed around her hands and lightning flashed inside her eyes.  There was lightning in Thor’s eyes and his hands as well.  Mjolnir began pulsing with light and power that ran through their bodies and arced out through their eyes and hands.

But though Mother’s hand beneath his glowed in a coruscating aura and power flared out from her fingers he felt nothing.  His hand touched warm flesh, and it was agony that not the slightest trace of the power he could _see_ was palpable to his touch.

Power raced in the air above them.  He could see just the barest perception of something moving and growing, like a great fish barely glimpsed in the waters, and he unable to touch it, the larger form hidden behind some uncrossable gulf, some unbreachable barrier.  He was unable to distinguish even its form when he knew, he KNEW, that before he would have seen the thing whole and understood its every part.  Grief seized his mind and he wanted to howl with sorrow and rage.  But Frigga’s voice had gone impossibly high, her counterpart impossibly low – melody and counterpoint – both she and Thor gripping Mjolnir so tightly it seemed, for a flashing fraction of a second, that their flesh and the hammer had become one thing.

The light shifted from the brightness of lightning to something dimmer, shaded with blues and violets.  And then, suddenly, it was cooler.

Cooler still, and lower and lower the temperature went, and he began taking in deep drafts of air as if he had never breathed anything so fresh and pure before.  The strobing light ceased entirely and now dark midnight blues and lighter greys spread throughout the room, and the aura around Mjolnir pulsed indigo and sapphire. 

Snow was falling.  Delicate flakes settled on his hand and did not melt, though it vanished instantly on encountering Thor’s or Frigga’s hands, though bright flakes caught and lingered on their hair.

Mother’s song slowed.  The energy retreated and the light around Mjolnir began to fade by degrees.  It became colder, colder yet.

Frigga’s song began slowing, and her eyes lost their brilliant fire and became her own again.   She stopped singing, blinked, then shivered violently, as did Thor.  Frigga lifted her hands by tiny degrees, from Thor’s hand and from Mjolnir, though Loki was reluctant to remove his hand from hers.  The light vanished from Mjolnir’s uru head and she became quiescent, content to rest her handle beneath Thor’s hand.

Frigga took in a shallow pained breath, then released it, her breath a puff of fog in the air.  Some last snowflakes drifted in the air around her.  The light in the room was now as it had been before, but the temperature…

The temperature was many degrees cooler.  It was comfortable; it felt right; and he was suddenly aware that Frigga’s hand was trembling beneath his.  He snatched his hand away.  She looked at him, body slumping in exhaustion, shivering ever more violently.

“Thank you,” he said, and then, “You must leave now.”

But she put her hands on his face and pressed her fingertips into his skin, small points of searing heat.  Then she sighed and stepped back.  “Ah, son,” she said, her breath clouding the air.  “I wish I could have given you your sorcery back.  But Mjolnir heard no songs of sorcery in the Casket’s tales.  Yet, I hoped…”  She stopped.  Thor stepped up behind her and enfolded her in his dark mantle, leaving his own arms bare.

Loki caught his gaze.  Thor, too, looked drained.  “You should both leave.”

“Aye,” Thor said. 

Frigga trailed her hands off Loki’s face.  “I will speak with you tomorrow,” she said, and turned away. 


	17. Rún (Secrets)

The next morning Eir strode into his chambers, followed by two servants bearing the portable equipment she used when one needing her care could not be taken to the healing chambers.  All were wrapped in heavy fur mantles.  He supposed they didn’t want to go to the trouble of glamouring him to take him through the corridors, and he had no intention of going there under the watch of his guards. 

When Eir turned to direct the placement of the equipment her breath clouded the air as if her very words had become visible.  The servants set up the platform, a portable version of the Soul Forge, deposited the equipment, and departed at Eir’s dismissal.

She circled the room for a moment, her expression inward and seeking, and then faced him.  She nodded in approval. “A very effective spellcrafting.  It cannot have been easy to tame the storm power of Mjolnir into a subtle temperature control.  Your mother is powerful.”

“It would have required great power,” he agreed, not bothering to keep the bitterness from his words.  Power he himself had previously possessed.  A thread of resentment stabbed his thoughts:  She had known, always, what he was.  And kept her silence.  Telling himself she’d had no choice did not improve his mood.

She gave him a knowing look and gestured for him to get onto the platform.  Once he was there, she activated her equipment, and he could feel the sweep of energy across his body, flowing first in swift currents then slow.  He relaxed into it while she studied her equipment and then studied him, at times touching his hands, his temples, his forehead, his chest, abdomen, legs, feet.  She adjusted the equipment and left it running for a time.  He could feel his body accepting what the seiðr-powered machine offered him, but it was paltry, a thimble full of water when he needed oceans.

Finally the machine finished its cycle and the power faded into quiescence.  He sat, then stood, feeling as if he had left a feast after only barely tasting one dish.

“How do you feel?” she asked.

“Weary,” he admitted. 

She held out her hands an inch away from his face and slowly, with care, she traced the energy pattern around his entire body, kneeling at his feet as she completed her task.  She rose and looked at him levelly.  “The imbalance is still there.  It improved after the first treatment, then worsened.  This treatment helped.  But not enough.”

“Can you then restore the balance?”

Her eyes were calm; her face impassive.  She had, he knew, seen as much or more death than Asgard’s greatest warriors.  “The change in temperature here has helped, as has the food you’ve found to eat.  But for the underlying imbalance, I have not found a solution.  I have been working with my equipment and my healers are researching herbal and mineral lore.  Particularly as it applies to what little we know of Jotunheim.  I have consulted those two remaining of the vǫlur who were in the prime of their power when your family last came to court.” 

“My – ” Astonished, he stumbled over the second word, “family?” 

She didn’t react to his stammer.  “Your grandparents, and your mother as a young woman, before she became Queen of Jotunheim and bore Laufey’s children.”

“My mother?” he repeated, for once with no clear idea what to say.

“Farbauti.  She was killed in the war.”

He closed his eyes, reeling with the thought.  He had never considered other Jötunn relatives.  Never considered a mother.  Never considered any but Laufey, whom he had slain, Helblindi, who had condemned him to this torment, and Byelstr, the youngest of Laufey’s sons, whom he knew not at all.   Father.  Brother.  Brother.

He dragged himself back to the present.  “And can the elders help?”

“They had no answers.  They said, only the All-Father can restore what he has taken.”

“That will not happen,” he said with certainty.

“No.”  She eyed him calmly.  “When the All-Father took your ability to use ice as a weapon, he destroyed your ability to regulate your temperature, to survive in warmer climates, as the Jötnar can, for certain periods of time.”

He swallowed, nodded, said nothing.

“If I can find no solution, I will ease your way as much as I can.”  She was eying him compassionately.

His face twisted.  “Though I be no warrior, I will not seek ease.”

“Many do,” she said, “when they think no one knows.”

He barked a sudden laugh, visualizing Hogun pleading for potions to ease the pain of war wounds.  “Ah,” he said.  “Your words have given me wonderful thoughts.”

A slight smile played across her mouth and vanished.  “I will not cease looking for a cure.”

“You do not accept the advice of your elders?” he said mockingly.

She smirked.  “When have you?”  Then her gaze went hard again.  “You healed well from what was done to you before your return to us.”

Heart thudding, images flashing through his mind, he snarled into her face, “And what do you know of that?”

She didn’t back off, and to his disappointment didn’t seem in the least impressed by his display.  “Nothing at all, save what the Soul Forge showed me.  The wounds you bore went deep; you had not as yet healed completely.  Scars on your body.  Scars on your mind.  Scars on your soul.  What happened to you, when you fell?”

“What can it possibly matter now?” he spat.

“Your brother will wish to avenge the insults done to you.”

“What have you told him?” he demanded.

She stared back, unafraid.  “Nothing, but he has his own guesses.  And those are enough to enrage him.  He wishes to slay any who hurt you.”

He laughed harshly.  “Does he, now?  There are some things even the mighty Thor cannot do.”

She looked at him speculatively.  “If there is danger to Asgard, you should speak of it.”

“Do you think I care what happens to Asgard?”  His words, low and filled with contempt, merely got the same disappointed look she had often given him when, as a small boy, he’d hurt others through misuse of seiðr. 

“Do you?” she asked, brows lifted.  He said nothing.  She held his gaze.  “Ah, Loki, how often I wished you had been willing to listen to counsel other than your own.  Perhaps you might have trod a different path.”

“And been a different man, not who I am.  And what matters false wishes?  Now it is too late.”

“You may choose to give up.  You have done so before.”

Rage filled him at her words but she stared him down.  He gave her a twisted smile.  “Your words are as sharp as my knives.”

She nodded, unperturbed.  “You know I will always speak the truth to you.  And if I am forbidden to tell you truths, I can contour the shapes around them.  Before I leave, I have a tale to tell you.”

He huffed, still angry, but curiosity tugged at him and he waited for her to begin speaking again.

She assessed his expression, then began.  “There was a King, many years ago, who trained his son in the arts of war.  He told him many tales of valor, of the hardness of heart and the deadening of the soul required to be a great ruler.  Fearing his son had not learned these lessons well enough, he told him that in the course of a recent battle a traitor had been discovered who had given secrets to the enemy.”

Loki flinched, thinking of letting the Jötnar into the Vault.  “And who might this King be?”

“They call him Elf-Slayer.”

Loki’s eyes widened, thinking of the tales he had heard of Bor, the man who he had always thought had been his grandfather.  The man who, along with his army, had slaughtered all of the Svartalf, man, woman, and child.

“The King charged his son to execute the traitor – the man who had been his son’s Shield-Brother, his closest companion since childhood.  And so the son hardened his heart and did as his father bade, and later learned it had been a test and his friend was innocent.”

Loki stared at her for a long minute, and another aspect of Asgard’s king came into focus for him.  “What am I to make of this tale?” he asked angrily.  “Am I supposed to feel sympathy or contempt for his choice?”

“Whatever you like.”

“What would you have done?”

“Better to ask that of those who wish to rule.  Consider the cost of the one who sacrificed without questioning and carved out and discarded part of his soul.”

“I already know the hardness that lies within his heart.”  Loki was reluctant to think further on her meaning, but already he was considering interpretations.  Of how this might apply to Thor.

Of how it might apply to him.

She nodded, started to speak, then stopped again.  She indicated the equipment.  “I will send my servants to remove my equipment from your chambers.”

She turned and stepped toward the door of his chambers.

“No,” he said.  “You had something else to say to me.  Say it.”

Almost there, she turned.  He had seen many expressions on Eir’s face, but never once had he seen indecision.

“Tell me the shape of your truth,” he said with authority, but in a softer tone, one meant to convince.

One side of her mouth quirked and he knew she’d seen through him, but her understanding expression vanished.  She looked exhausted.  “You know subtlety.  So does your mother.  Consider there are things you do not know.  There are things children do not remember.  There are things children may have been forbidden to remember.”

Startled by the abrupt change of subject, he demanded, “Tell me more.”

She shook her head.  “There are things I should not even know.  Consider my words.”  She turned away from him and walked out of his chambers. 

He almost called her back, but it would be useless to demand answers she would never give him.  Or to ask the question that had suddenly occurred to him:  could she sense the presence of any magical artifacts left in the hidden niches in his chamber?

No.  No, he wouldn’t ask her.  He understood that on some level she still saw him as a child, as her charge, as her patient. 

He thought about Odin’s choice, to believe lies and sacrifice the life of a friend.  But it was very, very easy to believe lies.  Had he not done so, all his life?

But he had been an infant, and Odin a man grown when this sacrifice had been asked of him.  Eir had been right to tell him that Odin hadn’t questioned the order. 

But he had questioned everything, for his entire life.

Eir’s servants re-entered his chambers without requesting admittance, collected the equipment, and withdrew in silence.

After they left he stood watching the closed door for a long time, turning over her every word about Mother and about hidden things, but try as he might none of it made sense.  He then turned his attention back to seeking out every possible angle of escape but wherever his thoughts led him lay stone walls and emptiness.

He remembered Eir’s offer to ease his death.  _No_ , he decided.  _No.  I am not ready to die.  I have more knowledge than most in Asgard.  Eir does not possess even the half of what I know.  I surpassed her long ago.  There **is** an answer.  And I will find it._

For now – he was suddenly ravenously hungry and no one as yet had brought him food.  He strode to the main doorway and paused.  The guards were outside.  The kitchen was barred to him.  He returned to the bathing chamber, thinking to enjoy the cool water in the tub – and stopped, surprised to find in the lowered temperature the water in the tub had frozen solid.

Frigga had extended the wards to the stream.  He remembered the icy touch of that stream, so cold neither he nor Thor stayed in it long even on the hottest days.  Though his chambers were now quite pleasantly cold, the prospect of lying beneath the strong currents of that icy water was a temptation he would not resist. 

He went out onto the balcony, squinting against the light, gasping as the heat hit him, as fierce as that from the kitchen ovens.  He forced himself to continue.  He turned to his left and walked to the end.  This close to the balustrade the snapping energy of the wards was palpable even to him – a bitter thing, that the only thing he sensed of magic was his prison.

But at the end the energy shifted and he realized the way ahead was clear.  It remained clear as he reached the edge, climbed on the balustrade, stood and flung himself over, catching the nearest limb of the great tree that grew next to the palace.  Just as he and Thor had often done so, as children, so many years ago.  Mother remembered well his early secrets, the ones he had thought himself so clever in finding and concealing from other eyes.  

Down and down, catching and releasing branches, sap sticking to his hands, the heat sucking the energy from his body counterbalanced by the delight of being outside and free, if only for a short time.  Setting his feet on the ground, he rocked for a minute on the springy turf, then walked away from the palace.  To his relief It was cooler and dimmer here in the shade of the trees.  He could hear it already, the rushing stream, and picked up his pace, moving through the edge of the woods behind the palace.  Only a short distance from the palace, the trees protected him from anyone’s sight.  He already felt the bliss of this small fragment of freedom. 

There it was.  The rushing sound of the stream, its waters clear and deep, racing along its course that would take it past the palace and through the city to the edge of the world.  He removed his breeches and stepped in.  The icy cold was pure pleasure.  An instant later he was immersed up to his neck, head lying on the grassy edge.  The ice-fed water, so refreshing, soothed him with the comfort of the constantly moving stream flowing over him.  He lay there for long minutes, enjoying the sensation, watching as dozens of fish arrowed through the waters, moving with their own purposes. 

Hunger drove him back out.  Still wet, he put his breeches back on, and lay on the bank.  He lay, motionless, watching the silver backs of the fish as they hurtled along the stream.  Sometimes there were great quantities of them together, and then minutes passed with none in sight, and then they appeared again. 

He knew how it felt:  arrowing through the water, the supple twist of muscle that kept him moving and darting in salmon form.  Knowing exactly how to catch and swallow and savor the small fish that were his prey.  How easy it had been.  How right.

How wonderful to slip from form to form, know the joys of water, the freedom of air, the feel of hooves meeting meadow-earth, the joy of speed in every element save fire.

Rage caught in his chest at these memories and the threads of thousands more crowding behind them, mocking him. 

How little he had known.  What a fool he had been.

He dug his hands into the earth and cut the thought off until he could breathe calmly again.  Then he focused on his task, watching the fish, preparing to snatch one from its element.

Hands in the water, he grasped, grasped again, dozens of times, his fingers sometimes grazing, sometimes grasping the wriggling slippery bodies.  Sometimes he caught and held one so tightly he was sure success was at hand, and then, with a sudden twist, it escaped his grip and disappeared among its fellows.  Frustration and hunger ate within him.

Then, finally, his hands closed on one and it did not get away but fought furiously, its sinewy body writhing in his grasp.

He pulled hard, whipped it around and bashed its head against the stony ground until it stopped its thrashing and lay quite still.

He paused, studying his catch.  The fish’s scales gleamed shiny silver and blue.  During the fury of the many hunts he had been on with Thor he had cared nothing of blood and gore rained down upon him; once they had killed the monster threatening their people or prey they sought for food it was easy enough to magic themselves clean.  They had usually given the carcasses to their servants to prepare while they sat by the fire, drank mead, and recounted every detail of the hunt.  Or, if they had felt like being alone, they had retreated to their campfires with their prey, and used knives to gut and clean them, and roasted them over a good fire.

He had neither magick nor knives to gut the fish.  He was not a beast, to seize his catch between his teeth and rip it apart and swallow.  If the kitchens were not now warded against him he would return and steal a knife.  Or knives. 

His fingers curved as if he held one in his hand.  The things he could do, with just one knife!

He used one sharp thumbnail to slit the fish’s belly open.

Paused.  Looked up.  Jerked his hands away from the fish. 

Thor’s shadow preceded him.   He had approached as silently as if Loki were a prey animal and he the predator.  He stopped several feet away, as unmoving as a tree trunk, and watched Loki closely.

“What do **_you_** want?” Loki asked wearily.


	18. Despair (Æðra)

Loki stood tall and straight and met Thor’s gaze.  Did Thor expect thanks for his help in cooling his chamber?  He’d thought then to say some words of that nature.  But there was before Eir’s visit.  He had to admire her determination.  And her realism. 

He was dying.  And he was full of rage.

Thor looked into his red eyes and held his gaze determinedly. 

Embarrassed at having been caught at such a lowly task, he lashed out, “Have you come to gloat over the disgusting feral Jötunn?”  He wanted to sneer at the pain on Thor’s face, and some craven part of him wanted to stop the words.  But he just kept talking.  “To watch me eat like an animal?  Pray, join me at my table.  The feast awaits you.”  He spread out his hands in mocking welcome.  “Unworthy as I am of your princely company.  Unless you have come for other purpose?”  He gave him an exaggerated lewd smile.

Thor did not rise to the bait.  Instead, he offered a simple smile.  “Mother told me you were here.”  He extended a hand.  Which held a small dagger.  Astonished, Loki looked at the dagger, then at Thor’s encouraging face.

“Take it,” Thor said.  “I will not see you forced to ‘eat like an animal.’”

Expecting trickery, Loki closed his fingers over the hilt and lifted the knife.  He held it in his palm.  His belly twisted as he got a good look at it.  It was exactly the same size and shape as the one he had used to stab Thor on Stark’s tower. 

Suddenly dizzy, he stepped back so abruptly he nearly overbalanced.  He camouflaged the motion by sitting down.  Thor.  Stark’s tower.  Thor’s plea.  _You think this madness will end with your rule?_

No.  The madness would never end.  He’d known it then – he knew it now.

The sudden desire to agree, to stop his pointless actions, stop the destruction, tell Thor everything. 

Everything. 

_It's too late. It's too late to stop it._

There he was, on the tower, The Other, whispering in his ear.  Hating hating hating.  Struggling in a net of false promises, desperate to get out.  Words word words, lies lies lies. 

Sentiment…

The knife in his hand.  Plunging it into Thor’s side.  Hating himself.  Loving the act.  Tumbling away from Thor over the tower’s edge.

He sucked in a deep breath and came back to himself.  He saw Thor had seated himself on the ground a few feet away and was watching him intently, face concerned.

He fingered the knife.  “I did not intend to kill you.”  And regretted the words immediately for now the fool was beaming, face bright with sentiment.

“I know,” Thor said, and for once no sarcastic words sprang to Loki’s mouth.

He looked down at the fish, reminded of his hunger.  He used Thor’s gift to scale, gut, and fillet the fish, then stared at the glistening flesh, aware of Thor’s gaze.  “You cannot mean to stay and watch me eat this.”

“I cannot leave you that,” Thor said gently and extended his hand for the knife.

He got to his feet, as did Thor.  He glared at Thor’s concerned gaze, furious at the shame he felt of how he appeared when Thor had first arrived, like an animal ready to tear at its kill.  The worthless Jötunn beast.

His blue hand closed around the hilt of the knife.  _The fool.  The trusting fool._

There was a roaring sound in his ears, and he was back on Sanctuary.  _Don’t you remember how he hurled you into an abyss?_   The Other hissed.  _He threw you away like worthless garbage.  Your false family rejoiced at what Thor did to you. They all deserve to die._

For an instant he felt it, his eyes at the kill spot on Thor’s chest. Felt the way the blood would spurt over his hand as he thrust the dagger between Thor’s ribs.  Short as the blade was, he knew he it could be angled to reach Thor’s heart, pierce it.  They could certainly kill him then.  Odin would kill him then.  He would escape everything.  Forever.

He could do it now.  He could.  He could end his brother forever.

_We are getting closer._  The Other’s face – inches from his own!

He reared back.  He sucked in his breath.  Escape!  He had to escape!

But there was no escape.  No barren moon.  Not even Asgard could protect him.

He looked at Thor in despair. No. He could not do this. Not to Thor.

Sentiment.

Truth. He would not, could not harm Thor.

There was only one answer left.

His hands were shaking.  He tightened his grip.   He could do it now.  Slide the knife between his own ribs, feel the blood flood over his hands.  Not wait for the slow death Eir had promised him.  Not wait for **HIM** to find him.  Ironic if he died before **_he_** arrived.  Yes.  End it now.  There would be no endless fall.  Had he ever stopped falling?  He had thought with each fresh failure of fortune he’d reached the lowest depths, and yet it always seemed he had farther to fall.  And now here he was, a broken animal, deserving only of his now-inevitable death.  One final fall.  Why not end it now? 

Thor was suddenly much closer.  “Loki…”  It was a whisper; it was a growl.  “Give it back.”

“You are a fool,” Loki whispered, one hand still tight around the hilt, the other hand pressing to his own ribs, fingering the place he could strike.

“Loki.”  He looked up into Thor’s eyes.  Looked and saw the way grief and worry had ravaged Thor’s face.  Regret and despair and anger twisted and coiled and warred with love and memory and _sentiment_ inside him.

His heart was racing faster, faster.  His breath was coming in shallow gasps.  Thor’s unblinking gaze held his. 

Neither moved.

“Please,” Thor said.

Without thinking, Loki opened his fingers, let the knife drop, and backed away.  He wondered when he had become such a coward, deserving of the fate he had been given.  He lowered his gaze to the ground.

“Can you not leave me be?”  He’d wanted to scream it, but his voice betrayed him, higher and softer than he desired it, with a crack on the last words, and he shuddered with shame at his own weakness.  He stared at the ground where he saw Thor reach out his hand and take up the knife, then disappear from his line of vision.

He felt the shift when Thor straightened, heard the step as he moved forward, felt the heat of Thor’s hand rest against the back of his neck.  “Once you fell, I understood far better how I valued you.”  Thor’s voice was rough, as rough as if there were tears in his eyes.  But Loki did not look up.

Thor’s voice, when he spoke again, was even more broken.  “You were right all along.”

Loki jerked in surprise, but said nothing, kept his gaze firmly on the ground.

“I told you before:  I wasn’t ready to be King.  My actions that day proved it.  As you have so often said, I am a fool.  A thousand times a thousand I have regretted that day for what all my arrogance and foolhardiness cost you.”

He paused, waiting, and Loki finally said wearily, “You know that I tricked you into doing it.  I admit that.  I was envious of you, and gave no more thought to the consequences of my plan than you did to yours.”

Thor let out a breath and continued, “Can we not both forgive each other and step into the future?”

Loki remained silent, gaze fixed on the sight of an insect climbing a blade of grass, all too aware that, for him, there was no future.

Thor kept talking.  “Brother, can you not tell me of your enemy?   Because I will destroy him utterly, as weregild for what he has done to you.”

Mad laughter bubbled inside him.  He kept his lips sealed.  _You can’t,_ he thought, but did not say that either.  He gave Thor a hot glare.  “You wish me to stand again in your shadow.”

“I wish you to stand, whole, with me, in the sun.”

“As I am?” he spat, caught again in the trap of his rocketing emotions, the power of rage and despair shredding him and leaving him with nothing but vitriol on his tongue, poison to spew, poison to kill Thor’s hope.  And his own.

“That matters not.”

“And all of Asgard would agree?”

“I wish I had your words, so that you might understand me.”

“Oh, Thor, I understand you _very well._ ”

“I wish you would give me better words so that I might understand you.  Will you not tell me what happened to you in the Void?”

Endless endless fall and things twisting in and out of his sight and lungs burning because he could not breathe but could not die an eternity of torment and things gazing at him eyes so very close and screaming at him and reaching talons and slime and –

The landing and then –

The agonies of being unmade and remade entirely into a tool –

_Loki Loki Loki._ Shaking.  Fingers digging into his shoulders.  His eyes snapped open.  Thor’s face, raw with desperation, loomed close to his.  He heard himself whispering, the words escaping him without thought.  “…falling… falling… falling… I saw things out there… and they saw me.” 

Thor moved one more inch to rest his forehead against Loki’s, kissed him gently, embraced him, his strong arms holding him close, tight, and he wanted for one traitorous moment to surrender to his weakness and accept, but Thor’s arms were –

Too tight.  Loki sucked in a breath and shoved him away and saw that Thor’s eyes were bright with tears.

“I only wish to aid you.”  Thor swallowed hard.  “I will protect you in every way I can.” 

“You can’t _,”_ he said in a low monotone.“Do not act as if you can.”

“We can be warriors again, together!” Thor said urgently.  “We can defeat your enemy.”

_No one can defeat him – not you, not anyone.  Better to keep denying, to keep lying.  To push mother away, to keep Thor away from him before he dragged them down with him._   Loki gave a hollow laugh, a bitter, broken sound.  “So naïve.  Still clinging to the remnants of what was and never will be again, and believing you have the whole of it.”

“Brother, know that I love you.”

“I have heard it said love is for children.”

“Whoever told you that had the wrong of it.” Thor reached out, stroked his hair once, then dropped his hand.  “I will leave you be, since you wish it.”  And waited for Loki’s response, which never came.

Thor’s gaze dropped, and Loki saw how those lines of pain etched even deeper into his brother’s face, and felt nothing but hollow inside, gutted, like the fish, soon to follow in death.

Leaves crunched beneath Thor’s feet as he turned away.  Loki looked down and watched his booted feet as they walked away. From him.

_If I were not here you would be safe.  You and Mother both._

It was long moment before he moved, slowly becoming aware he was trembling. He took up the filleted fish and ate it and sat quietly for a few minutes until he felt strong enough to get to his feet.

Thor didn’t know.  Thor had talked as if Loki had a future. 

He should have just told him – _give up your fantasies. I’m dying, and that will be the end of it -_ just to see the crushed look on his face.  _And even if I live – when **HE** comes here –_

_No barren moon._ He shuddered, then wanted to laugh.  _I’ll cheat you of your revenge, Mad One, by my own death.  And when you arrive – let Asgard BURN! Everyone who hurt me.  Everyone who insulted me.  Odin, most of all._

Except –

He squeezed his eyes shut. 

Except Frigga.  Except Mabb.

Except Thor.

He wiped a finger beneath one eye, taking away the traces of tears.  How surprising to find Jötnar could cry.

There must be some way to keep them safe.  Die.  Or escape.


	19. Sagða (Reveal)

He managed the climb back up the tree and when he entered his chambers from the balcony it was like pushing through the surface of water.  The cool air inside met him like an embrace, and, feeling stronger, he went back to his books  The Alfheim treatise on magical training for children was still open on his table.  He set to reading again and when the servant brought him more fish he ate that absently and kept reading.  And kept trying, but the simplest cantrips remained utterly beyond him.

Heaps of books lay everywhere; books on sorcery, books on Jotunheim, all scattered haphazardly over tables and chests and stacked on the floor. 

And every one of them useless.  Useless! 

Frustration exploded in him and he swept everything off the table, and then turned in fury to his book-shelves, dragging volume after volume out, then when it held no answers hurling it to the floor.  Despair and exhaustion threatened again and he grabbed at anger instead.  He looked up at his bookshelves, towering above him, and peered at the volumes that remained on the topmost shelves.  He had already searched through them but perhaps he had missed something.  He climbed the ladder to the topmost shelf and pulled down several books at random. 

Something small and heavy fell to the floor, swept outward by one of his books.  Startled, he jumped down and knelt on the floor.

It had been clay.  A small figurine.  Now it lay shattered in pieces and dust.

His fingers curled, remembering the feel of the clay.  It had been his pleasure when very young to make figures of clay and whisper newly-learned spell words into them.  The crudely formed hawklike head of this one was intact, and he recognized it as his poor attempt to create a figure of Hábrók the hawk, representing the best of everything.

He had been but a child, and had abandoned that practice when Frigga started teaching him true seiðr.

The clay dust glittered against the smooth tile of the floor and there was a sudden ringing in his ears.

Without thinking, he dipped a finger in the clay dust and put it in his mouth.  The strange earthy taste exploded across his tongue.  He jerked as electric tingles ran down his torso and limbs and faded again and he saw –

Himself.  So proud of himself.  Small enough to fit into the small space beneath the great chest at the foot of the stairs.  He’d wanted –

His mind stuttered, focused again –

He’d wanted, yes, to tell mother that he’d cast a spell, a good one this time.  He’d created this small statue and bespelled it, and now –

And though he liked hiding beneath that chest, yes, now he was a little too big but still wanted to hide and surprise her –

So far he had been successful.  None had seen him approach.  They looked past him, around him, but did not _see_ him.  He was there, invisible, his spell was _perfect_ , the little figurine safe in a pouch around his neck.  He wanted to laugh with glee, but did not, because even though they could not _see_ him, perhaps they still might _hear_ –

Father and Mother were talking at the top of the stairs.  Their voices had gotten louder, and he stirred uneasily.  He wanted to surprise them both.  Maybe Father would have a word of praise?  Mother, he knew, would be pleased.  Why were they shouting?

Shouting, and Father was looming over Mother but she had not stepped away and was speaking back to him in a low hard tone and –

He had her by the shoulders, shaking her, and –

Loki clapped a hand to his mouth to stifle a cry and –

Father shoved Mother hard, still shaking her, fingers gripping hard into her shoulders and –

Her heel met empty space and Father looked over her shoulder and –

Let go.

Frigga tumbled backwards through the air and Loki screamed as Mother slammed into the stairs, down and down she came, hitting hard and tumbling again and Loki was screaming and –

He raced to her still form, her arms and legs twisted so wrong and –

She was struggling to breathe, and Father, who was descending the stairs, face contorted, finally focused on Loki.  Tears were streaming down Loki’s face and he couldn’t catch his breath.  He put his hand on Mother’s forehead and she opened her eyes and looked at him.

An enormous shadow loomed over both him and Mother’s crumpled form.  She looked up, and Loki saw the look on her face – pain / anger / pride / defiance suddenly masked by utter composure.  He tilted his head and looked up at Father, who was watching both of them with blank eyes, rage twisting his mouth.

Blood stained Mother’s mouth.  She swallowed, glanced through fluttering lids at Father, then hissed as she hesitantly lifted one broken arm and touched Loki’s face.

“You shouldn’t be here, dear,” she whispered raggedly.  “Go back to your room.  You don’t need to remember this.”

And, Loki thought, staring wide-eyed at the remnants of the dust of the broken figure still clinging to his fingers – he hadn’t.

The world reeled and he was suddenly sitting on the floor, shaking all over. 

So this is what Eir had meant.  He ran a hand over his face.  And suddenly more images were there.

Nothing like this.  Not ever again.  Except…

Sometimes, going to her chambers unexpectedly, wanting answers to the sudden quicksilver questions that occurred to him, needing those answers _now_ , too impatient to wait.  And he had seen it.  A bruise on her perfect skin here.  A deep but healing cut there. 

She, giving him indulgent smiles belied by haunted eyes, had reminded him that Shield-Maidens, even Queens, still needed to spar.

He knew this, of course.  He’d seen her at practice.  He’d believed her every word.

Every.  Single.  Word.

Sickened to the soul he got up.  Paced and paced to get away from the thoughts that goaded him, hands clenched to fists.  He would kill Odin.  He would kill him horribly.  Plans, useless plans, began ticking in his mind, building one upon the other, creating a more complex edifice with every permutation.  He would kill the old man.  In a thousand different ways.  But what could he do, under guard, gelded, powerless, dying?

Paced back to his bookshelves.  And saw the sparkle of clay dust still on the floor.

Sat down.  Positioned his palm over the remnant of a broken hawk wing.  Let his fingers trace patterns in the dust.  Tried to still the spinning of his mind, tried to search for any strength left to him.  He brushed the dust and fragments together.  He could feel it now, the slight tingling, the strange texture against his fingertips.

He opened his mouth.  Placed the tip of his index finger on the tip of his tongue.  Hummed as the faintest thread of seiðr entered.  A thousand visions flashed in fragments too tiny to grasp but a shard of each stayed with him.  Each spell he had ever learned.  Just the smallest piece.  One letter in the alphabet.  One stone in a wall that went on for leagues.  One thread in an elaborate garment.  One link in a shirt of chain mail.  One tiny part of a much larger whole.

Gasping for breath, feeling the prickle of something prying beneath the invisible runes on his skin, he gathered up the dust and placed it in his mouth, then gathered up more and did the same.  He ate it all down as quickly as he could, and each taste, each mouthful was like having pieces of a shredded manuscript suddenly made whole again.  Words appeared.  Then phrases.  Then –

Nothing more.

Shuddering with the static energy bursting through him, feeling as if he had been dropped in a place where he knew not the language, everything around him seeming strange and alien as if he had never lived in these chambers, as if they belonged to someone else entirely.

Colors shifted and changed around him. He began walking toward his bedchamber, feeling as if he were moving underwater, skin half numb. Senses straining, mind strangely quiet.  He stepped inside, and it seemed as if the dimensions of his chamber had changed.  There was his bed, where he had bled from his wounds and nearly suffocated.  There were the clothes he had torn off, the hanks of hair he had torn out. 

There were the walls.

He stopped abruptly.  One small rectangle – one of his hidden niches – was glowing.

He was there in an instant, pressing his hand to the stone wall.  A corona flared around his fingers.  He pressed harder, and the stone _shifted_ and became like liquefied sand.  And then his hand was in the wall up to the wrists and his fingers, invisible now, sought blindly, caught and held and brought forth –

A small fabric bag.  He opened it and blinked, trying to remember.  Inside dried herbs fell into dust, coating the splinters of something forgotten.

A bit of wood from an ash tree.  Yes, he remembered now.  Ash, for transformation.  Ash, for Yggdrasil, for the paths between realms.  The herbs…

He rubbed the dust of herbs between his fingers, then rubbed the dust on his gums.  The room… widened…  expanded… and pieces of written spells danced mockingly across his vision.

Pain!  Needles stabbing his hand!  Dazed, he looked down and found his hand clenched around the herbs and wood.  He opened his palm and stared at the splinters sticking out of his hand, each sending a message of fire through his nerves.  He pulled one out and dark Jötunn blood seeped up. 

He pulled them all out, heedless of the pain, and stopped.  He knew what to do.  There would be pain.  It didn’t matter.

He put the splinters in his mouth

Electricity sliced his tongue.  Then pain stabbed everywhere, but he kept his mouth shut, near choking at the swelling of his tongue.  Wood. _Poison to Jötunns **,**_ he realized on a deep gut level.  He clenched his teeth, refusing to open his mouth, because there it was:  His magic, guttering and faint, but there. 

He wrapped his arms around his body, hunched over, holding the power within him protectively.  He visualized a tiny green flickering flame, and himself fanning it, encouraging it to catch hold and form a blaze.Green and gold light clung to his skin.  He seized, arms legs body convulsing, mind blanking, head and heels beating on the floor **.**   Light flashed across his vision. Fragments of runes visible, gone again, lifting and tearing at his skin and then agony as each rune on him flared brightly.

Then darkness.  Everything receded away for a long time.

Some time later he opened his eyes.  And looked down his body at his pale Aesir skin, unmarked by Jötunn lines.  A surge of joy filled him –

It changed as he watched.  The blue advanced again, chasing the white across his skin like clouds forced across the sky by high winds.  The blue washed over his skin covering it completely, the markings following to form their now-familiar patterns.

New strength filled him.  He sat up and leaned against his wall.  Behind him, he could feel something pulsing, something thrumming, like a sound heard in the far distance.  _Had the other niches opened?_ But when he turned he saw nothing, no glow over any of his hidden compartments, and when he ran his hands over the stone he felt nothing.

He knew where the niche he most wanted to open was, the one that contained the object that would give him the most power.  He fixed his gaze upon the exact location, hoping that this particular object, more so than any other, would grant him access. 

Nothing happened.  He fought off despair.  He had known better.  He had it protected behind one of his strongest wards, and he didn’t dare waste this scrap of magic on an impossible task.

His stomach churned.  His skin prickled, needlelike flares from within, tracing the patterns of the runes that bound him.  He grit his teeth against the pain and leaned back.  The flare subsided.

Ash, for transformation.  He looked down at his arms and **willed.**

And his body faded to invisibility.

He held onto the spell a moment longer.  Released it.

Not enough to open the wards.  But invisibility?  He could do so much with this power.

Shaking from the efforts, weakened but triumphant, a plan erupted in his mind.  Would he have enough seiðr to do it?  The guards would follow him wherever he went.  All eyes followed the Jötunn monster.  But he had enough power to cast the glamour and be seen by none.  He could pass invisible through the heart of Asgard… 

He **would** succeed.  Odin would die.  By his hands.

How?  He’d need weapons.  The armory was out of the question, guarded as it was by the Einherjar, too many to slip between unseen.  But there were knives aplenty, swords, too, and he knew where many could be had.  In bedchambers, carelessly left behind, for who would steal anything in Asgard’s most royal stronghold?  There would be time, during the daylight hours while all were out playing at war or hunting or gone into the common areas and markets, leaving their chambers unwarded, unguarded, for who would trespass here?  There, in an armoire or chest; there, left carelessly by a bedside with its owner occupied in bedsport.  There daggers lay gleaming, waiting for his hand.  He knew exactly the type of dagger he wanted; he could feel it now, its weight and heft and balance made just for his hand. 

He realized he’d lost track of time.  He needed to find out the day, and that would tell him when Odin would next attend a midday meal with his counselors and then return to hold court and hear appeals. 

The plan shaped in his head:  when he had found something he could use he would slip through the hallways. 

He would stand against the wall, waiting for Odin to step out of the dining chamber. 

There would be Einherjar ahead of and behind the King. 

But for one instant, if his strength held and he could remain unseen, he could do it. 

If Odin’s neck presented a better target he’d slit his throat. 

If there was some chink in Odin’s armor, he could hurl the blade. 

He would make himself visible, so Odin could see with his one eye who had killed him. 

He could see it now – the fear in Odin’s eye, the sure knowledge he was dying by the hand of the son he had disowned.  He savored his planned revenge for everything the old man had done to Mother.

And after that?  He was dead already by Odin’s hands.

But Mother would be safe.  That was all that mattered now. 


	20. Heimta (Claim, Recover)

Most of the courtiers would be out of their palace chambers and about their daily tasks, whether practicing the arts of war, or doing whatever tasks Odin had assigned them.  Several floors would be virtually empty.

He opened his door and informed the guards outside he was expecting someone from the healing chambers later and to please keep his door open until they arrived.  They shrugged at the odd request, but being thickheaded and focusing on their one task – to follow him around wherever he went – they watched him carefully as he went back inside and disappeared into his bathing chamber. 

A short while later he cast the spell with a whisper and smiled when he realized he was beyond the sight of men.  Invisible, he walked out into the hall and past his guards who did not so much as twitch at his passing.  The heat and light outside was a shock after the coolness of his chambers, but he went on with purpose.  He found himself grinning widely, pleased at this tiny renewal of his power which he knew from long experience kept him safe from Heimdall’s gaze.  He wished he had had enough strength to cast an illusion of a double sleeping in his chambers or lying in the tub, but when he had tried a sudden drop in energy warned him he had only enough strength for one casting at a time.

He had a specific goal in mind and wasted no time in walking through the interlocking maze of corridors to get there.  He kept carefully to the sides of the hallways and moved cautiously past any doorways lest someone come out suddenly and accidently bump into him.  A few people were walking back and forth in the hallways, most of them servants bringing things to and from individual chambers or emerging from performing tasks therein. 

There.  Just around the next turn.  Hoskuldr’s chamber.  The one who had called him _nith_ and threatened to spit on him.  Like all of Asgard’s warriors he owned plenty of weaponry, and Loki recalled he had an assortment of long knives. 

He had to wait for several minutes until the corridor cleared before he opened the door, slid inside, and closed it quickly.  For one brief second a wave of dizziness hit him and passed quickly.  He realized he’d held his breath and drew in a deep breath and released it. 

With a jolt of alarm he realized he was becoming fatigued.  That sent adrenalin through him and he quickly passed through the receiving chamber and into the sleeping chamber.  He rummaged quickly and efficiently through chests and armoires, and, with great satisfaction, retrieved a long dagger that had good heft and was highly suitable to his purpose, as well as a couple of smaller knives, unfortunately dull and poorly kept.  He took them anyway.  Aware that he was tiring rapidly, he still decided to search through the one remaining chest in the corner of the room.  He was halfway through its contents – nothing of any use – when he heard the door open and two men entered, halfway through a conversation.  He recognized Hoskuldr’s and Arnor’s voices.  He heard the clear sound of the door shutting behind them. 

He drew in a breath and testing his casting.  Still invisible.  He decided it would be best to remain here and wait to see what they did.  It was not possible to leave Hoskuldr’s chambers without alerting them to his presence – he couldn’t leave without opening the door to the hallway.  For a moment he considered going out on the balcony and trying to see if he could make the leap to the next balcony, but he was almost certain Odin’s wards would prevent that.

Of course the two of them found something to drink and sat down, talking animatedly about the wagers they had placed on some of the sparring this morning, who had won, who had lost, who had been humiliated and left lying in the dirt.  They kept at it, drinking several bottles dry, for over three quarters of an hour.  Loki stayed silent and still in the corner of the bedchamber the entire time, alarmed that in his weariness he had let the invisibility spell slip twice.  Fortunately, they had not been looking in his direction.

He strengthened the spell, and stood upright, still waiting, as patient as if he were on a hunt, waiting for a cave lion to emerge from its lair.

Another hour passed, the heat becoming more and more uncomfortable, with Hoskuldr and Arnor’s puerile conversation poor company.  Then, finally, he heard Hoskuldr get to his feet.  An instant later he was entering his bedchamber.

Loki tracked his progress around the chamber.  Hoskuldr turned his attention to where Loki was standing.  Loki stepped silently away.  Just then Arnor entered the chamber, telling a bawdy joke, and Loki saw his chance.

He moved rapidly toward the door.  Arnor changed course suddenly in his direction and he backed up, accidentally brushing against a wall hanging which began swinging.  Arnor’s eyes widened – and at that moment Loki experienced another wave of dizziness.

His illusion failed.

Arnor shouted in surprise, reaching for the short sword at his side.  An instant later a dagger was in his throat.  Arnor fell, gurgling.  Another knife was already in Loki’s hands as Hoskuldr turned in alarm, sword already raised.  His eyes widened at the sight of Loki; he brought up the sword, and Loki let the second knife fly.

Hoskuldr went down like a felled cow.

Loki stared down at the bodies for a split second, vengeance satisfied.  The vile words they had said to him ran through his mind as he retrieved the knives and cleaned them on their clothing.  He placed the daggers inside the waistband of his breeches.  One at a time he dragged the bodies into the bathing chamber, positioning them so they’d be out of the line of sight of anyone looking into the chamber. 

The heat was becoming more oppressive by the moment.  He struggled to recast the invisibility spell, and finally succeeded, but he knew he had very little time before it failed again.

He had little time left.  The best he could hope for would be that the bodies would not be found until the servants came the following day, and they would not be missed by friends seeking them for evening plans. 

He needed to learn Odin’s whereabouts.  If he was to take his revenge, it would have to be today.

But first he had to get back to his chambers before the spell failed again.  He felt jittery and overtired but knew he would have to find some way to rest and regain strength.  As it was now, he would not be able to maintain invisibility for the time needed to find and slay Odin.

It took a great deal longer to get back.  His invisibility kept flickering and he became far more cautious about walking along main corridors, taking complicated detours along little-used back ways whenever possible, saving his strength for when he reached his chambers and would have to get past the guards. 

Doing so took every last bit of his magical strength, but as before they did not so much as blink as he walked back through the still-open door.  He headed straight for the bathing chamber, stripped off his clothing, lay down on the cool tile and slept.

 

Loki woke up some time better, feeling restored.  He gave a moment’s satisfied thought to the deaths of Hoskuldr and Arnor.  He put on his breeches and headed back into his receiving room.  A meal was awaiting him on his table.  He smiled when he saw the door was still open and put his most arrogant, slightly mad look on his face.

He walked to the door.  The guards fixed him with their gaze.  He demanded loudly, “Why haven’t _they_ come yet?”

From the not-quite-concealed eye-roll the guards gave him he gathered they’d decided that either his anticipated guests were imaginary, or that the healers had refused to heed his summons. 

Either way worked for him.  He whirled dramatically, strode back into his chamber, and slammed the door, a grin lighting his face.

He settled at the table and absentmindedly ate the fish that had been presented on a plain wooden platter instead of decorated gold – another insult, but one he barely registered.  He could _feel_ magic inside him, faint and flickering though it was, and suddenly a profound sense of relief, of _joy_ , flashed through him.

Odin had not amputated his magic, after all, but bound and concealed it, far more efficiently than the manacles had done, because they had left him aware of what he could not access.  Now he was aware of his bonds again, like a tight mesh enclosing every bit of his skin, but here and there pinpricks had torn through when he had consumed the two charms, allowing a minute restoration of his power.

Finished with the fish, he considered the walls full of shelves of books and artifacts.  Stripped as it was of anything Odin had considered useful to him, they had still overlooked the clay charm.  Might they have missed something else?

He decided to start at the top, on the theory that it was more likely something had been missed there. 

He climbed the ladder until he could see into the top shelves.  A shaft of light from the balcony intruded into this haven, dust motes dancing in the air.  The light lanced across the shelves, illuminating the empty spaces in back.  He took each book out carefully, searching with the limited seiðr he had for something he might have concealed within its pages.  Time ticked by as he explored book after book, shelf after shelf.  Utterly focused on his goal, he lost all sense of time, lost any sense of impatience or urgency, the world narrowing down to this one repeated task that required his absolute concentration.

Finally, two cases over, on the very top shelf, he set the book he had been examining back on the shelf at the very end, then pulled it back, his attention caught by something barely sensed. 

He wasn’t high enough to see into the back of the shelf, but he felt it.  Something sparked.  Something sparkled.  He felt it like a vague distant wisp of a breeze on his skin.  He was as high up as he could go on the ladder.  He pressed his body against the bookcase, pushed up on his toes, and reached toward the back.  Almost – almost – he angled his body to move even closer, he stretched further till his shoulder ached in its socket.  There.  His fingertips brushed – something –

A slight jolt of energy infused him, pulling him like a lure.  Something was wedged into the back corner of this shelf.  He stretched his arm and closed his fingertips on something soft and nearly ephemeral.  Sparks exploded in his mind, then quickly settled into calmer yet still potent energy.  He sucked in air, which seemed even colder and more pure.  He realized, with a shock, that he felt well.

He pulled the object out and, startled, he realized what he was holding.  He stroked it carefully.  It was utterly simple – a black feather entwined with a rune-inscribed leather cord.  He’d cut the runes in himself with an awl. 

Once Mother had recognized his natural talent she had been teaching him magic in an organized, incremental way.  She’d shown him how to make simple charms:  the best materials, the correct runes, and, most importantly, how to use his own energy to infuse the purpose of the spell into the materials.

This charm was one of the first ones he’d made entirely on his own.  Mother had overseen his work, but he had done everything else on his own.  He had made this one to enhance his growing magic, and it had worked quite well.  His ability to do magic had grown, like the leaps of mountain goats over chasms in their races up mountains.

He’d rapidly grown past the need of it, but rather than entirely draining the magical energy from it and discarding it, he’d repurposed it instead, entirely without Mother’s knowledge. 

The feather was one of Muninn’s, fallen from the sky, swept by the wind into the corner of a little used garden where he liked to go and read.  He had seen the bird fly by one day and this feather fell.  It twirled in the breeze and he’d tracked its progress until it hit the paving stones and skipped along their rough surfaces, ending up beneath a stone bench near the one where he was seated.  He looked underneath and there the feather was, wedged between the pavement and the grass-covered earth.

He’d picked it up.  And he knew what use he would have for it.  He’d use it to conceal himself from the gaze of those annoying birds.  He’d hidden it at the back of this bookcase, untouched for centuries, as a permanent ward for his chambers against those sharp raven eyes and ears.

He hadn’t thought about it in many centuries, having long since learned more effective ways to conceal himself, no matter where he was, from those birds and Heimdall, as well, that did not rely on magickal objects but on his own innate power.

He held it in one hand and descended the ladder.  Once on the floor, he carefully examined every bit of its surface with one finger, testing the magic still flowing sluggishly in his veins, examining the latent power the charm still held.  It hummed gently in his hand. 

A sharp smile curved his mouth.

He knew what to do.  Fingers trembling, he brought it to his mouth.  He parted his lips, put the tip of the feather inside, explored it with his tongue.  He wet the feather with his saliva, and felt the magic it contained reach out to him.  He took it entirely within his mouth and sucked it, absorbing bit by bit the remnants of the magickal energy he had placed in it all those years ago.  He began to gently chew.  It softened further.  He swallowed it and his eyes slid shut as pure bliss flickered through his body, a low hum of satisfied pleasure, as his body drank it in. 

He stood still for long moments, eyes remaining closed, just _feeling_ his body absorb what it needed, feeling the structure of his sorcery healing, reviving like a desert after rain.

It wasn’t enough.  Not nearly enough.  He had been so young then, his body filled with only a fraction of the power he had gained in later years.  By itself, this energy was only a small fraction of what he needed.

But. 

He opened his eyes. 

And there it was on the wall before him.  The key to everything.  A small patch of the wall glowed bright green.  He sought inside, gathered, focused, taking every scrap of magic he had gained from eating the clay charm, the wooden charm, the raven-feather charm, and gathered the physical strength he’d gained from resting in ice and feasting on fish.  ~~~~

He called upon every drop of energy he had inside him for this casting.  There would be only one chance.  He would have nothing left after this.

Focusing the power, he wove it into one strong beam and poured it out in full force against that pinpointed target.

The green glow on the wall sparked, caught green fire, and vanished, revealing a tiny ledge.  On that ledge…

He reached in and closed his fingers on the magpie feather he himself had shed so very long ago.  He had stored it here on a whim and then forgot about it.

His fingers tingled.  This feather, taken from his body when he was entering the full height of his powers, contained within itself all that he was.  All of his seiðr.  **_All._**

He held it, calming his thoughts, quieting his body, and felt a sifting, a churning in the air as if doors to other worlds were awaiting his touch to open. 

He brought the feather up to his face, brushing it against his skin as Thor had done, in that one golden bright day when all had gone according to his purpose.  That one day in which he was not the shadowed prince, but the accomplished one – that day where he had shown Thor his mastery of the air, leaving Thor behind on the ground.  Leaving Thor waiting, for once, for him to return. 

Their mouths together.  Their bodies, together.  Barely taking the time to catch their breaths before doing it all again, greedy for every touch, every thrust, every surge of blood and muscle and sex, every ecstatic cry of completion.

_We are no longer those young men._   Grief flooded through him.  He shoved it aside. 

His feather.  His powers.  His shape.  _His choice._

He put his magpie feather in his mouth.

Spark, burn, pain, conflagration, as sudden fire invaded every cell, filling, not scouring, healing not plundering, birthing not murdering.

His mouth opened in a soundless cry as wave after wave of energy surged through him, filling him, drowning him in ecstasy like sex, but so much more. 

He crashed to the floor, arms outflung, felt breath leave his body, and for a long endless moment it did not return. 

When he breathed in again, his power, his own natural gift settled and circulated around his body.  For a moment he lay there, intensely aware he felt hale and wholly at ease in his body for the first time since he had let go from the Bifrost. 

No, not even then.  This was _more._ This was _better!_

He stretched – and something CRACKED around him.  He sat, the crackling sound filling the air, and saw with astonishment the floor around him was completely covered in ice, a fine pattern of cracks marking its entire surface, radiating out from where he’d lain.

He looked down at himself. The blue of his skin was vibrant and healthy, looking so much better than it had a short time ago.  He thrust out one arm and willed it, and a spear of ice shot out several feet into the air.

He smiled in delight and stood.  The seiðr that had guttered and flickered through him mere hours ago when he had eaten the first charm was now an all-present vital thrum inside him, as intrinsically wedded to him as the beat of his heart, the blood in his veins, the breath in his lungs.

Plans flooding through his mind, he faced the wall.  His hands knew the gestures, and, no longer impotent, he spoke the words and focused his power – then released it.  A wave of green-gold magic swept across the wall.  And when the light faded, all the wards were gone, and every one of the niches was now open, displaying all the objects of magical power he had concealed over the centuries. 

He opened his pocket universe and swept up all his magical possessions into it, then gestured it shut again.

Now.  He would find Odin and destroy him.

And, with his powers intact, he could escape Asgard and go anywhere in the universe he wanted. 

A frisson of fear shivered across his skin at what lurked out there in the stars.  His fear vanished.  All that mattered now was executing his false father, taking his revenge for what he had done to Mother.  As for the _thing_ that awaited him outside of the Nine, half-drunk with his reawakened power, he had a sudden burning conviction he could defeat the Titan as well.  He just needed to come up with the right plan.

His door opened wide and he startled.  His racing heart did not calm when he saw the expression on Mother’s face.


	21. Ganga við (Confess)

Frigga, dressed in furs, closed the door behind her, her eyes wide, expression distressed, the white vapor of her breath clearly visible in the chilled air. 

“Mother, what has happened?” he demanded, stepping toward her.  _What had the old man done?_  Rage flared again – he would make Odin pay dearly.

Fear etched Frigga’s face.   “You must come with me now – we haven’t much time.” 

He didn’t move.  “Tell me!” he insisted.

She reached for him and he opened his hands instinctively to accept her touch, but the moment her hand brushed his he jerked back uncontrollably.  He watched in amazement as the blue was chased up his arms by the alabaster hue of his Aesir skin.  Everything reversed when he let go of her hands and the blue tone rapidly returned to his skin.  He stared at his arms in for a second longer, then met her equally startled gaze.

“What?” she gasped.  “This is how it happened when my husband picked you up in the Jötnar ruins,” she breathed.  She ran her fingertips across the back of his hands and the transformation began again.  She grasped his hands tightly in hers – and went momentarily utterly still.  Blinking rapidly, she interlaced her fingers with his.  A tentative smile touched her trembling lips.  A tingling surged along every inch of his skin; he recognized it:  her seiðr exploring his, his magic recognizing hers.

Her eyes widened at that meshing of their power.  She burst into a glorious smile and looked him up and down, her expression turning from stunned shock to understanding to overwhelming delight.  She held tight until the transformation was complete and he was wholly his Aesir self again.  She beamed at him.  “My clever boy,” she breathed, then flung her arms around him.  “My clever, clever son,” she said into his neck.  He gathered her into a tight embrace.

“You are well, Loki,” she breathed, profound relief in her voice.  She hovered her fingertips an inch away from his face, down his shoulders, to his hands, touching his fingertips.  He felt the shock of a spark between then.  She opened her eyes and smiled.  “You are well, though I sense you are still weakened.  You are not as strong as you once were.  That will come.”

She pulled back, her fingertips still touching his hands, her smile so bright he’d rarely seen its like before, and he found himself smiling back, a surge of relief, of joy running through him so powerful it nearly overwhelmed him.  “I have been working to restore your seiðr, and here you have done it yourself.  But you must change back, lest anyone step in and see you in this form.  You must do it while I am touching you, so you can maintain that form in case another touches you.”

Startled to even consider this possibility – was it any different from changing to and from bird form?  No, he thought not.  But it was still with reluctance that he allowed the blue to sweep over his skin again.  Once done, he concentrated, focused on the art of shapeshifting.  His skin shivered with sudden power and he knew, absolutely, that no one’s touch could now change him.  Nothing, save his own will. 

How strange, to shift into that which he already was.

She nodded, pleased.  “You are secure now, until you wish to change into some other form.  This changes everything – but we must act quickly.”

“Tell me what you mean.”

Her expression sobered.  “Two bodies have been found.”

“Ah,” he said, and nothing more.

“They do not know for certain who caused their deaths.  They each had many enemies, but none who would kill them in one of their chambers.”

“And gossip turns to me.”

“It does, yes.”  She waited, and when he said nothing further, went on, “Why did you do it?”

“I needed weapons.  I went searching Hoskuldr’s chambers.  I did not expect anyone to return at that time of day.”

She nodded, and there was no condemnation in her face.  “You would have had right to holmgang, for their words, were you not a prisoner.”

“It was no challenge.  I slew them where they stood.” 

Her grip tightened on his arm.  “Two against one.”

“I took them by surprise,” he said, regretting that he would not have the satisfaction of slaying them both in true challenge.

“They were warriors of Asgard and should always be prepared.  You had every right to your vengeance.”

“Yes.  As you do for yours.”  His heart began beating rapidly again; the memory of Mother lying broken at the bottom of the staircase warring with the reality of the hale woman standing before him, and his fury and hatred for Odin struck him full force.

She went utterly still, her face blank and then alarmed.  “What do you mean?” she said. 

He held her gaze.  “I remember.  I made and bespelled a clay figure.”  Her eyes widened.  “I wished to show you I had learned a new trick.”  A spasm crossed her face.  “I wanted to show you that I could walk among others unseen.”  It seemed as if Frigga had stopped breathing, so still she was.  Each word fell like shattered glass into the silence of the room.  “I heard you arguing.  I saw him strike you.  I saw you fall.”

Her face blanched white.  “I never meant for you to know – “

The door swung open and Frigga let go of his arm and turned toward the door.  Thor, clad in his fur-collared burgundy coat, entered and advanced toward them, a thunderous look on his face.  A look, Loki instantly recognized as, for once, not being for him.  “Mother, does he know?”  He stopped to stare at Loki.   “Brother,” he said, “You look different.”  Loki huffed, and Thor sighed and tried again.  “I mean you look well.” 

Loki barked a laugh and traced a Jötunn line on his arm with a blue fingertip.  “How _can_ you tell?”

Thor stepped closer.  “Your skin – very blue now when before it was almost grey.  Your eyes – bright.  You look strong.” 

“You _are_ observant,” Loki smirked and Thor, the oaf, treated him to a happy smile and a bemused headshake.  Nostalgia seized Loki at the memory of the many times Thor had given him this same look when he had given up trying to parse Loki’s words and accepted whatever truth he wanted to believe in.  Loki’s expression turned into a more genuine smile. 

“Eir’s treatments have helped, then?”

“Partially.”

Thor seemed to take that as a complete answer.  His smile faded and he directed his attention to Mother who had taken the opportunity to compose her features into a calm, serene expression.  “Does he know?”

“He knows of the deaths of Huskuldr and Arnor, yes.”

“Does he know the Council members who remain here have sent for Father?”

“The message has been – delayed.”  A secretive smile played around her lips.  “Odin did wish to enjoy the Hunt, did he not?”

“He’s not in the palace?” Loki asked.

“He and many of his nobles and counselors have gone to the mountains of Vanaheim to hunt as part of the celebration of the birth of the King’s third child.  Snow elk have been sighted.  Very rare, very fortuitous.  King Ullr rightly offered the AllFather the honor of first kill, and the All-father graciously accepted his homage.”

“It is not usual for him to attend celebrations for a second child, much less a third,” Loki observed acidly.

“Ah, but how can the court pass up such a rare delicacy as snow elk?  Just yesterday, I reminded the ladies of the court of the feast held all those centuries ago the last time snow elk was served and they spoke to their husbands of the impressive trophies to be gained.  It occurred to me that my husband has had so much on his mind lately – it would do him well for him to enjoy a good Hunt.  It is of benefit to all.”  She gave a regal smile, and Loki smirked.

“Ah, mother.”  He shook his head.  “You truly possess a silver tongue.”

She accepted the compliment with the nod of one truly deserving the compliment being bestowed.

“And those rare snow elk?”

“I had nothing whatsoever to do with their unusual appearance in those mountains where they are so seldom seen.”  She gave him a look of utmost innocence.

“But you know who does.”

Her eyes sparkled.  “Do you recall that cousin of mine?  The weather witch?  Perhaps I challenged her to show me her power by creating a corridor of just the right conditions for snow elk to wander out of their distant fastnesses?  Not, of course, to see if snow elk would explore that path.  I never mentioned them at all.”

Loki huffed a laugh, then turned to Thor.  “Why aren’t you there, leading the charge?”

“I could not leave, with you so ill.”

Thor’s gaze held immense worry, immense sorrow, and Loki felt a strong wave of sentiment threaten to overwhelm him.  “Did that not seem strange to others of the court?” he said, cursing himself at the sound of a slight tremor in his voice.

“Yes, but I care not.” Thor was looking at him again with a ridiculous amount of sentiment in his eyes.

“And how did the old man take that?”  Loki turned to his mother, suspicion growing in him.  “You assisted in the old man’s decision, did you not?”

“There may have been spellwork involved.”  The smile on her face exactly mirrored his own.

Thor shifted impatiently.  “How long will the message be delayed?  And what happens when Father finds out it was delayed?”

“It will be delivered when they return to the Vanir court and Odin receives their gifts.  It will not be such a long time and will not seem strange, given the level of magickal protections around that ceremony.  That will give us enough time to make plans.”

“Mother,” Loki began, “do NOT endanger yourself for me.”

“Mother,” Thor said, “do NOT endanger yourself AT ALL.”  There was the glow of lightning in his eyes. 

“Do not be concerned for me,”

“Mother!” Loki shouted.  “I just told you what I remembered.  Was there more?  What I saw in the throne room – he wanted to hurt you.  He WOULD have hurt you.”

Frigga’s face went regal and strong, but before she could speak Thor burst in.  “AYE!” he shouted, and then with a visible effort, lowered his voice.  “Mother.  I saw it too.  The whole court saw what he did – and what he wanted to do.”  He looked at Loki.  “You are both in danger, and we must act NOW!”

“ **I want the two of you to sit down** ,” Frigga said in her most authoritative voice, and startled, Loki found himself obeying just as quickly as Thor did.  They sat in two of his elaborate chairs while Frigga sat in a third.

“We must take action **NOW**!” Thor repeated, leaning forward, barely attempted to temper his tone.  “When Father returns and finds out, the consequences will be dire – ”

“We are all his subjects and must obey him,” Frigga said with patent insincerity, and Loki smiled to see the look of shock on Thor’s face, who had not yet learned, and probably never would, how to lie with the truth.

“Mother, you **CANNOT mean** – “

“Ah, my son.”  Frigga smiled.  “For those who do not wield Gungnir, there is still strength, which comes in many forms.  Sword and hammer.  Seiðr and misdirection.  Stone and wind, fire and water.”

Thor puzzled over this for a moment, looking less baffled than Loki had expected him to look.  “What plans are you making, Mother?”

Instead of answering him, Frigga turned to Loki.  “Loki, I have sent my vǫlur out among the people, invisible to their eyes, to hear what they say, and they say many things.  While many of the court say the All-Father was a fool for embracing the child of an enemy – ” 

Loki’s face twisted at those words and she held up her hand.  “Many of the people say Odin is wise for taking a hostage, the son of a King, and all would have been well if he had followed his plan.  Many of the people say you were wise in your actions and better all the Jötnar had died, rather than witness the All-Father bring shame on all Asgard by bending the knee to Helblindi and agreeing to his demands.  Many of the court say it would be better if you were dead.  Many of the people say it would be better if Thor were king and you to some day rule on Jotunheim.    The courtiers and the common people say many things.  They are not the same things.  The All Father cannot let any of this stand.  So he must take action.”

“And what do the people say of my deeds on Midgard?”

She looked at him in astonishment.  “No one cares about Midgard, son.  They know little about what you did on the mortal world, and care less.” She fixed Thor with a stare.  “You and I know better about their capabilities and how advanced they have become, but this is something we should keep to ourselves, for now.”

Thor’s brow furrowed.  “Agreed.”  He looked at Loki, face showing an unaccustomed fear.  “Brother, Father will not let your actions stand.  Once he returns, he is sure to order that you be brought to the place of execution and beheaded.”

Loki laughed.  “A slow death or a fast one, what matters what he intended for me?  You know I was dying, and the only way I received any help was for Mother and Eir to go behind his back.  And if he does execute me, will people still not think he does Helblindi’s bidding?”

“Brother, I will not permit it.  Mother and I have been talking.  I thought at first to take you to Jotunheim so you could recover your strength in the ice.”

Loki barked a laugh.  “Jotunheim?  They will find and kill me.  And you as well!”

“There are many empty places on their world,” Thor said.

“So your plan is to take me to a barren world so I might live in isolation in the snow.”  _And wait for my fate to arrive,_ he thought with a shudder, but didn’t let the words escape him.  “Even with the Bifrost now completely repaired, how will you do that?  You are not King.  How can you think of doing this when the _old man_ can take your power from you and banish you at any time for disobedience?  Throw you back down to Midgard!  When Heimdall can find you wherever you go?  Your father will accuse you of treason!”

“I would not leave you alone.  Mother could conceal us.  And if not, Mjolnir – ”

“ – cannot kill **all** who dwell there!  And even if you succeed - how long would you survive there?  A fine end for the Odinson! Thor!” Loki swallowed against the image in his mind of Thor frozen to death in the ice of Jotunheim.  “I will not have you throw away your life for mine.”

Thor’s jaw worked.  Frigga cut in, “You know we decided against Jotunheim, Thor.”

Thor growled in frustration, a noise that would have lesser beings running for their lives.  “Have you heard from those you know in Alfheim?  Can they use their magicks to help him?”

“If he finds out she has even asked,” Loki said in alarm, “he could declare her traitor too.” 

New fear flared in Thor’s eyes.  Frigga raised a hand.

“I have heard from Alfheim and the Vanir,” she said, ignoring that concern.   She gave Loki a level look.  “I sought aid from my relations on Vanaheim, and my sisters in seiðr on Alfheim.  All the realms know you have been declared _nithingr,_ outlaw.  None will accept you.  _Officially_.” She smiled slightly.  “Unofficially, many would welcome you if they did not fear the consequences.”

“I named him _nithingr_ , as well.”  At Thor’s appalled look and her surprised one, Loki added, “Just before he broke my jaw.”

“We must consider the options that lie below the surface,” Frigga said after a moment.  “Haven in secrecy on one of those Realms is an option.  There are others.”

“Mother,” Loki said, clear admiration in his voice.  “You surprise me.” 

She leaned forward, close enough to ruffle his hair.  “Even the lessons I did not intend to teach you, still you learned.”

His gaze hardened as he remembered their words just before Thor arrived.  “I admire your ability to evade what I wish to discuss.  I saw what I saw, Mother.”

“We will talk of this later,” she said sternly. 

Thor glanced at them both, confused at the change in subject.

“There is no later,” Loki said.  “There is now.  You bespelled me.  **_Have you lied to me any other times_**?  Did I witness such again?”

“Just the once,” she said, her voice quiet.

“Answer the other part of my question.”  Loki’s voice was low.

“What are you two talking about?” Thor’s voice wasn’t quite a roar, but was approaching it.

Loki turned toward him.  “You saw how he was, in the throne room.”

“Loki,” she said warningly.

He ignored her and kept his gaze on Thor who was darting glances between him and Mother, face anguished. “You saw what could have happened in the throne room.”

“Loki, not now.” 

Her voice was as stern as it ever was, when he was a child caught doing something forbidden.  He held her gaze and did not look away.  “I fear for you, mother.”

“How can you fear for me when Thor will be here to protect me?” 

“You must explain all **now**!” Thor demanded.

“When I was young, I saw Father strike her and hurl her down a staircase, breaking her body,” Loki said quickly.  Frigga grabbed his wrist warningly, but he pulled away, watching her with a steady gaze.  “What else has he done?”  His voice was low and full of threat against Odin.

“Nothing that matters now.”  She swallowed and sat back.

Thor growled again, shot to his feet, and the air filled with ozone.  Thor loomed over Frigga.  Outside, thunder rumbled.

She looked up at him, still composed.  “Thor.  Control yourself.  We need to talk, and losing your temper will not help.”

“How – “ Thor’s face was contorted with rage.  “How can this be?”

Loki also got up, then knelt on the floor next to where his mother sat.  She settled one hand on his nearest shoulder.

“Mother.”  Thor was staring at her as if he’d never seen her before.  He stretched out his hand in summons for Mjolnir.

“Do not call for her, Thor!” Frigga said harshly.  “Let go!”  She remained seated and watched him with level eyes.

“Then you must explain all!” Thor said hotly, but he relaxed his hand.  The air settled again into something murky, still promising of storms.  He paced back and forth, scowling, his face as stormy as any of the thunderclouds he could create. 

“Yes, Mother.”  Loki stared at her. “Tell us all.  That was not the first time he hurt you – nor the last.”

“Both are correct,” she said, and raised a hand at their immediate protest.  “Neither matter now.”

“He will die for this!” Thor shouted.

“He **is** dying for this,” she said.  “For every blow he gave me I cast a spell to reflect back at him to eat away at his strength.  It is subtle, of necessity; no taint of sorcery must cling to him or implicate me.  I do not wish to die, nor to be found out.  I too,” she gave Loki a measured gaze, “have the right to revenge, but wives have no rights against husbands.  I cannot call holmgang on him.”

“Mother!” both Loki and Thor said simultaneously, their voices full of equal fury.

“The time now is for planning, not action,” she said firmly.

“Mother, It is not safe for you here,” Loki said just as Thor said, “We must take action against him now.”

Frigga shook her head, “I have warded myself against him, also subtly.  He thinks it is his own decision not to strike me blows when he is angered.  He counts himself better for it.  He has not harmed me in centuries.  What happened in the throne room…”  She let her voice trail off.  She stood, Loki rising with her.  She turned her attention to Thor.   “Thor, I am going to ask you something which may be the most difficult thing you will ever be asked to do.” 

His face brightened. “I am willing to do anything, Mother.  Name it, and it is done.”

“Then I ask you to do nothing.” He stared at her in astonishment and opened his mouth to protest, but she went on, “Part of being King is to know when to wait.  The time will come when these decisions will be yours to make.”

“If I see you or my brother in mortal danger, I will take action.”

“I ask that you do not do anything to cause the All-Father to banish you again.  I need you here.”  Frigga looked back and forth between them, and Loki recognized the expression on her face only too well – protective and fierce. “I will not lose you.  I will not lose **_either_** of you.”

“Mother, I will not lose you either.”   Loki brushed back tears and held out his hands.  She turned to him and he embraced her.

“Nor I,” Thor said, and his huge arms embraced them both.

“Mother, Father will have Loki executed as soon as he returns if we do nothing.”  Then he paused, looking at Loki again.  “Brother, you do look much improved.  What Mother and Eir did – are you fully recovered?”

“Yes.”

“Loki has always been more clever than any of us,” Frigga said.  “We were only able to sustain him with what you and I and Eir did.  As it turns out, he did the rest himself.”

Thor looked Loki over.  “What are you able to do, suffering under Father’s punishment as you are?”

Loki smiled, held out a hand, and a tiny green flame appeared.  “I have lifted Father’s spell and restored my own powers.”

Thor’s jaw dropped and then he gave Loki a big grin.  He enveloped him in another huge hug, which Loki returned.  It didn’t surprise Loki that Thor didn’t bother to question how he did this.

But when he let go of Thor Loki again turned to Frigga.  “Mother, why did you take this memory from me?”

He heard her sharp intake of breath, saw the tightness around her eyes.  “I wanted to protect you.  Protect you both.” 

He clenched his hands for a moment at the word ‘protect’, feeling a stab of pain in his gut, for an instant back in the Vault.  “Odin said he wanted to protect me from the truth.  So did you.”

“I wanted to tell you that truth.”

“Yes.  You said.  The truth about me.  But the truth about him? All the lies, right from the beginning.” Bitterness flowed into his voice.

Her gaze was stricken, and he felt a jolt of pain at having caused her sorrow, followed by relief at the sight of her remorse. Thor hovered to her side, his mouth opening and closing twice, his eyes shadowed with pain and confusion.

“I have failed you.”  Frigga’s voice was full of pain.  “I have failed both of you.”  Her voice strengthened.  She looked from one to the other of her sons.  “I will **_not_** fail you again.  **_Neither_** of you.”

She took in a deep breath, but the look in her eyes didn’t reassure Loki at all.  “You are right.  It is time we all spoke the truth,” she said, and laid a hand on Loki’s head, curling her fingers gently around the curve of his skull.  “You may begin by telling us what happened to you when you fell into the abyss.”

He wanted to protest her deft change of subject, but – _falling falling falling_ \- sudden panic crowded out everything in his mind.  _Thor threw me into an abyss,_ he thought, heart pounding, pulling back from her touch.  Her hand dropped from his head to one of his hands.  She squeezed it tightly. 

_That was a lie,_ he thought.  _Another lie_ **they** _had told him, more poison dripped into his ears by the Titan’s minions._   He swallowed, his vision blurring as he held her gaze, words, always so easy for him, clogging his throat like boulders damming a stream.

He abruptly turned and strode away to the edge of the balcony, the barrier beyond which he could not go.  He could now, he realized.  He could destroy the wards, sprout wings, fly away.  Go now.  He rested a hand on one of the pillars.  He could feel their eyes on him, even though he knew neither had moved, that both had frozen in place, waiting to see what he would do.

Where would he go?

“I know the one you fear is coming.”

He whirled back to face them, his heart pounding so loudly all other sound disappeared.  Mother’s face was full of concern; Thor’s expression a cross between intense curiosity and also concern.  He stayed silent, unable for once to come up with the words he desperately needed.

“Ever since I saw you for that one brief moment in the abyss I have been weaving your destiny.  I feared the threads to be cut short, and not all were and so I hoped.  I wove for you to live in Asgard, and the threads all cut short.  I wove for exile, and the threads grew long indeed.  Your destiny lies elsewhere.  But your brother and I need to know more.”

“Yes, brother,” Thor said, the look on his face, the fear for him, made Loki smooth out of his expression to something less revealing.  He managed a smile, but he saw by their expression it was nearly a rictus.  “Tell us who sent you to Midgard.”

He opened his mouth to tell another lie, panic eating at him, hands clenching, eyes darting, searching for some place to flee.

“Son,” Frigga said, approaching him.  “I know not exactly what you fear.  But I know it is powerful.  I know it mastered the Chitauri and sent you to Midgard.”

“Why have you not told me this?” Thor demanded, turning on her.

She stood her ground in the face of his visible anger.  “I know only scraps, and then poorly.  With the Bifrost broken there was naught you could have done, and without Loki telling us more, there is only so much I could learn with my workings.”  She stepped yet closer to Loki, looking up into his face.  “And every weaving I make shows, whoever your master is, he is getting closer.  I know something of what drove you on Midgard.  But you are not its puppet now.”

“I am no one’s puppet!”

She nodded slightly.  “No.  You are not.  Take the threads in your own hands and weave your own future.  What is coming cannot be avoided, but it can be fought.  But I fear – ” She stopped abruptly and swallowed.

“What is it, mother?”

“I fear for Asgard.  I fear we are not prepared.  I fear we will not be prepared.  Because, your – my husband – is beyond reason.”

“He needs to die.  So many of them need to die.”

She gave him a reproving look.  “Would you then let all of Asgard burn?”

He felt at once sick and angry and guilty and remorseful; a knot of dark emotion he’d like to purge and destroy constricting his thoughts. 

She laid a hand on his, but he wouldn’t meet her gaze.  “Remember how you loved our days in my garden?”  She kept her voice soft and gentle.  He swallowed and nodded slowly, remembering chasing butterflies and creating illusions just like them but in an entire rainbow of colors and how he had made her smile with delight at what he could do.  Remembered all the days in the bright sunshine there, when she had taught him everything she knew about magic.  Seeing her pride in him. 

Frigga nodded as she watched his expression while he calmed.  “Can you remember ought else you would willingly keep.”

The taste of Mabb’s cakes.  Her ancient face in the kitchens, her gesture pointing to the fishery.  He lifted up his gaze to look into Thor’s concerned face, remembering times of joy, of playing together, of fighting together, of going on quests together, of their secret, forbidden embraces, all of it long soured by envy and spoiled by rage, and yet….  “It was not all… ill,” he finally managed to say.

“Then tell us what you fear and let us talk of how we may fight it.”

He stepped further back into his room, away from the light pouring in from the balcony, and moved to the far end, deeper into shadows and darkness.  “I was taken by the Mad Titan.  He gave me his army so that he could claim the Tesseract,” he said, and heard their shocked, indrawn breaths.


	22. Heill (Heal)

Loki told them all he could bear to say, the barest tip of an iceberg formed of nightmare and agony.  As the words left his mouth he felt scoured inside, reliving every tortured moment of the pain he had experienced and the lies he had told.

Reliving the horror of the lies he had been told and learned to believe.  _“I called him Father,”_ he heard himself saying, believing himself a Child of this new terrible Father.  _“He ordered them to – ”_ and The Other and his blue-skinned not-Jötunn Sister obeyed and bent to their tasks, taking  him apart nerve and muscle and bone and mind and soul.  Because all the Children obeyed their Father.

The same Father who had welcomed him back into his Presence with comforting words, who had called him his new Son all the while ordering others to harshly punish Loki’s every transgressive thought while pretending sorrow at the necessity. 

He forced himself to keep talking, but there was so much, he only managed the bare bones of the tale, how he had been taken, what he had said, what he had done.  When they asked questions he managed answers and, to his shame, let slip far more than he intended to say.  He was breathing rapidly again and forced himself to think.  If he did not plan and plan well, he would run right into the Titan’s arms, and then –

That fate would fracture him, body and soul, entirely, shattering him into pieces so small his mind would be utterly gone –

Mother and Thor were silent a long time after he finished telling them what had happened to him in the abyss; their faces stunned, shocked, sorrowful, grieving, furious.  At one point Mother had bent her head and he had taken her into his arms while her tears had run hot against his cold skin.

Thor wiped tears from beneath his eyes, stepped over, and took him into an embrace.  He permitted it.  Accepted it.  Returned it.  The feel of the heat of Thor’s hand against the back of his neck, his body, now healthy, able to compensate for the temperature – the press of their foreheads together – he could scarcely bear the upwelling of sentiment, feeling himself still contaminated by all the darkness in his mind, all the old envy and resentment still speaking to him in needle-sharp voices, demanding attention.

Part of him still wanted to give up, let go, be done. 

A greater part wanted revenge, wanted to burn everything, wanted his enemies reduced to ash.  He clung to that need for revenge as if clinging to life itself.

“What did Father know of this?” Thor demanded of Frigga, and Loki listened intently for her answer. 

She looked at Loki sorrowfully.  “I do not know what, if anything, he or Heimdall knew of what befell you.”

Loki wanted to disbelieve her, but at the pain in her eyes accepted that she, too, was ignorant of whatever Odin had been privy to.  “Was he pleased to have me gone?” Loki demanded.

“No, brother, no.  He mourned – ” Thor stopped and looked at Frigga.  “Mother,” he said, and his voice was broken.  “What other lies have been told us?”

She shook her head, looking old and immeasurably weary.  “He was not always thus.”

Thor’s head bowed; his shoulders slumped.  “A wise King…” he began, then stopped speaking.  “I thought I had learned so much about how to be a king from him.  Now I feel as if I know nothing.  Less than nothing.” 

“Just because the speaker of those words has failed us does not mean all of those words are lies.”  Frigga put her hand on Thor’s forearm, and he shifted to meet her gaze.  “We must plan.  Whatever we do, it must be out of the All-Father’s sight.”

“I never thought to face my own father as enemy.”  Thor began to pace.  “I will challenge him for the throne.”

“I know you want to face this directly, son, but in that way lies disaster for us all, and not just the Nine.  If the Titan succeeds in his goal, all Realms everywhere will face his insane need for genocide.  Countless trillions, Thor, and that is just the beginning.”

“What would you have me do, then?  If he will not believe, and I cannot rule – ”

“Midgard is the key.  The Tesseract is here, but Mind and Time and Reality are there.”

Loki looked at her in astonishment.  “What?  **_He_** said nothing of the whereabouts of Time or Reality.  Surely he would have wanted me to fetch those for him as well.”

“Perhaps he knew not to place complete trust in his hold over you.  You failed him, did you not, by your own choice of the plot you carried out?”

Thor was staring at him in astonishment.  “That was deliberate?”

Loki felt his face go blank.  His lips felt numb.  “I knew I couldn’t win.  But I would not allow him to take anything more from me.  I did what I could to take his victory from him.  I made no attempt to hide from Heimdall’s eyes.”

Thor’s eyes narrowed with dawning realization.  “You anticipated that Heimdall would see you and tell Father immediately.” 

Loki nodded and managed a shadow of his old sarcastic tone.  “Of course,” he said, the words _you oaf_ remaining unspoken.

Thor barely blinked at his tone.  “That explains much.  Your lack of strategy, your poor choice of tactics.  None of it made sense to me, except…”

“Except **what**?”

“I thought you beyond reason.  That you had gone mad.”

“Perhaps I did,” Loki muttered.

“But now I see you wanted to fail – wanted to come home.”

Loki swallowed.  “Thor.  I knew I was for the ax.  Why not let Odin do what I failed to do?”  He instantly regretted that admission when the light of hope faded from Thor’s eyes, at the stricken look on Frigga’s face.  Thor was instantly in his face, digging his hands into the muscle of Loki’s upper arms, his intensely blue eyes filled with tears.  Mother had moved to Loki’s side, resting a hand on his shoulder.

Loki stood passively beneath their touch, unable to think of anything to say in the face of their grief, feeling something twist in his gut at being the cause of it.  Why did he want to hurt, and then feel no pleasure when he succeeded?  It was a weapon he repeatedly used against himself, and yet, somehow, he couldn’t stop it. 

But he could make an effort.  He could at least say something.  “Brother.  Mother.  I am still here, before you.”

“You must promise me,” Thor said, then paused, swallowing, searching for words. 

“Son,” Frigga said.  “You have come so far.  You gave regained your powers.  Why not search for a way to win?”

“Yes!” Thor said.  “Think of vengeance.  Think of victory!”

His fantasies of how he wanted to slay Odin flashed before him, and then were overlaid by his cell-deep need to destroy the Titan utterly.  Conflicting, powerful emotions surged through him.  He nodded.  He said, “Yes.”  They both relaxed and he eased himself from their grip.

They stood in silence for a moment, just breathing, just looking at each other.

Then Frigga said, “Let us plan then.  How much does the Titan know of Asgard?”

“Enough,” Loki said shortly, the word like acid on his tongue.  He was suddenly seized with a panicky desire to push them away, to run, to escape.

“Brother, why not tell us all of this before?  I asked you so many times, and yet you said nothing.”

Loki snarled, consumed by blazing rage and the sickness of humiliation and the knives of fear, “Do you think I want you to know ANY of this?  To know how low I sank?  To expose the full breadth of my weakness?”

“It is not your fault,” Frigga said.  “The Mind Stone is a powerful thing.  And what was done to you – ” She stopped suddenly, swallowed, kept speaking, her voice ragged.  “Loki, you know this sort of sorcery can ensnare even the most powerful of sorcerers if taken unaware.”

“Thank you, Mother, but…” Loki let his bitter words trail off.  Panic was rising again, and he was seized with the need to escape, to flee –

“You could have spoken to _me_ of this.” 

Mother’s voice was gentle, yet the room was wavering around him again, his pulse pounding, his vision narrowing down.  Everything was too much too much too much.  He shuddered, and suddenly it was all unspeakably real again:  _Nebula’s face above his, examining the patterns she had made with her knives in his skin, and the voices the voices telling him of his betrayal by his brother, his family, his Realm –_

He was talking and he didn’t even realize it at first, the words ringing inside his head, their faces a patchwork, unreal, a dream, a nightmare, a hope he reached toward that had been denied to him over and over again.    _“I lied to him thinking I could trick him, and I lied and planned to betray him and escape.  And I lied about what I could do for him, and I lied to myself about what I wanted from him, and then I wanted to believe – it was easier to give in and believe – I **began** to believe in his truth, because I knew all he saw me as.  I was just a stolen relic, a political pawn – ”  _

Thor’s face wavered in front of him, and he lifted one blue hand ready to strike and ice began to form but Mother grabbed his hand and it turned pale, but all he could see was Thor’s face swimming in front of him. “ _And YOU – Thor – you never saw me at all –  me hidden by your shadow, my ergi tricks so useful at times, so easily forgotten and left behind – and then you THREW me away, threw me off – ”_

Frigga’s alarmed face swam into his vision and he began babbling again, the words spewing out faster and faster until he could barely breathe and yet he kept speaking.  “ _And you, mother!_ Because it was true – you didn’t want me, you didn’t care for me, I was a burden, a flawed monstrous thing thrust upon you.  What HE said was RIGHT, what he said was TRUE.  And all I wanted was what HE WANTED, and I believed all HIS promises and I knew they were all lies, but I wanted them anyway.  I wanted to prove myself, to **someone** , to be SEEN, but even that I could not do.  I knew it wasn’t possible, that mortal was right; I had no conviction, and I killed him, I –  ”

“That mortal is not dead,” Thor broke in.  “Though I saw you stab him I did not witness his death.  I asked Heimdall to see if he survived and he told me, just a day ago, that he lives because of Kree biotechnology the mortals found and misused.  Just like the Tesseract.”

Loki began to laugh and found he couldn’t stop.  Frigga’s arms were around him, soothing him, and he shuddered in her embrace and slowly calmed. “I have gone mad,” he whispered.

“No, son, no.”

He began laughing again, and she ran one hand through his hair.  “What is wrong with me?”

“There are spells for this,” she was whispering as well.  “No one speaks of it, save the vǫlur in private to those who admit to such, but these changes in your mind can be eased.  Let me do this for you.”

“I believed everything **he** said.  **They** said,” Loki said brokenly.

“I know.  I know.”  She combed her fingers through his shorn hair.  Her eyes were filled with pain.  “I can cast such a spell.  If you ask me.  I will not do such without your permission.”  He stared at her, barely comprehending the words, and remorse flashed across her face.  “Can you forgive me?”

“For what?”

“For taking your memories.”

“Ah, Mother.”  A surge of anger, of betrayal, left him shaken, and he took a step back.  Her face crumpled, and suddenly those emotions receded.  He always hated disappointing her.  Was this another weakness? 

“How could you do this to me?” he shouted, trying for fury, but his voice fractured at the end, and it started happening again, her face wavering, HIS face there instead, and Nebula, with her knives and the rack and –

“Loki!” she cried desperately, and there were tears in her eyes and he felt horrible guilt and ferocious rage.  “Think of Volstagg’s youngest son.”

_What?_   His mind stalled for a moment, as the image of a young red-headed boy who barely reached Loki’s waist flashed through his mind.  The child, only half-grown, standing proudly next to his eldest brother, reaching up to clasp the handle of a sword as tall as he was, his brother casually resting his hand over that of his youngest brother. 

Frigga was still talking.  “You were that age when you saw what you did.  How could I burden one so young with that terrible truth?”  She reached a hand out, imploring.  “I only ever wanted to protect you.”

He ground his teeth at the sound of that word.  “That’s what your husband said.   ’Protect.’ Such meaningless words.” 

“I am not he,” she said fiercely.  “But I beg you – I beg you now – forgive my failures, if only for the moment.  We are all in danger and cannot think about the past.  Later – if there is a later – we will speak of it again.”

The Titan had lied to him about Thor.  Had he lied about Mother?  There was a twisted knot in his mind and he prodded at the pain.

“Son, please.  I can ease your pain, if you let me.”

“Do not take my memories!” he hissed. 

“I swear to you by the Norns I will not do so now and never will do so again.”

The intensity of the oath left him believing her every word. 

If she could rid him of these voices in his head –

He pulled in a breath.  Let it go.  Inhaled again.  Was this weak?  Was this cowardice?  Was this letting go? 

He wanted to believe her.  He wanted to trust her.  For an instant he thought of himself as a child – not what he had seen and felt at the time, but at the image of himself in a full-length mirror.  Like Volstagg’s son.  _A child should not have to witness such things._   Something broke in him – broke loose, but instead of shattering it broke free, liberating he knew not what.  Except the desire to trust her, as strong as it had ever been. 

Perhaps he was weak.  Perhaps he was a fool.  But he wanted this now and he would not deny that need.

“Yes,” he said.

Her hands cradled his skull.  She began stroking the center of his forehead.  She pressed her lips there, pulled back, and held her hands an inch away from his temples.  She began whispering words whose meaning he could not capture.  She pulled and he sobbed as shards of memories flooded in, slashing his thoughts to ribbons –

The Bifrost screamed as it shattered.  Falling – stopping.  His hand.  On Gungnir.  Looking up.  Thor’s hand, on the other end.  Above him, on the bridge.  Father.  Odin.  The old man.  _No, Loki!_

The Bifrost screamed as it shattered.  Thor’s hands grabbing him punishingly tight.  The rage and hate in his brother’s ferociously scowling face.  “Jötunn monster!” he screamed and raised him over his head, and Loki screamed back in rage as Thor flung him into the abyss –

The Bifrost screamed as it shattered.  Falling – stopping.  His hand.  On Gungnir.  His fingers.  The death of all hope at Odin’s words.  Numb, all over.  Nothing left.  Uncurling his fingers.  The horror on Thor’s face, the anguish as he cried out “Nooooo!” while Loki fell –

The Bifrost screamed – he was back on Sanctuary.  _Don’t you remember how he hurled you into an abyss?_ The Other hissed.  _He threw you away like worthless garbage._

Thor reached out to him, screaming in utter despair.  Looking up into his brother’s horrified, anguished eyes as he fell and fell and fell –

“….loki…. loki…. loki….”

Mother’s voice.  His vision cleared.  Holding on to Gungnir.  Looking up at the Bifrost, its screaming dying away to silence.  On the other end of Gungnir –

Odin was gone.

Thor was gone.

Mother was there, holding tight to the other end of Gungnir with both hands.

“Come back to me, son,” she pleaded, eyes full of encouragement.  “Please come back.”

“Mother,” he gasped, his hand on Gungnir going numb.  For an instant he felt it again:  the way he had unclasped his fingers, the way he had let go.  Of everything.

“Please come back,” she begged him, and her eyes, fixed on his, were a lifeline, a bright thread to follow – not back to before – but to somewhere else.

“Please,” she said again.

He brought up his left arm and grabbed Gungnir’s shaft just above his right hand. 

Now Thor was by Frigga’s side, lying on the bridge, reaching down to him, holding out his hand, and he remembered, he **remembered** :  Thor had not thrown him into the abyss. 

He stared at his right hand and willed his fingers to open.

His fingers obeyed him and he reached up higher, grasping Gungnir directly above his left hand.

His right hand slipped, his left hand tightened.  Above him, Mother’s knuckles went white against Gungnir’s metal shaft.  He looked up into her eyes.  His right hand was trembling. 

“Come back to us,” Mother said.

He tightened his right hand, kept his left-handed grip strong.  The cold of the metal sank into his skin.  His body was still swinging in the dying currents of unleashed power.  He clung there for a moment, breathing rapidly.  Then opened his left hand, reached up, grabbed Gungnir just above his right hand.

“That’s it… that’s it,” Mother said, and hand over hand he kept pulling himself up, inch by tortuous inch.  His hand shook each time he reached for the next hold, but slowly it became easier and his heart rate decreased and his breathing steadied as the whispers in the back of his mind became quiet.

His right hand reached to where Mother was clinging to Gungnir’s shaft just below the blade.  Mother’s gaze had never faltered.  Now she released one hand, the other holding Gungnir perfectly steady.  She held her hand out to him.

The voices in his head were gone.

He grabbed her hand.  As she pulled him up he felt Thor’s hands grab his waist and lift his body and then he was lying on the bridge face down.  Their gentle hands turned him over and sat him up and their arms took him into an embrace.

Mother’s hand was still on his face.  Slowly, with great care, she reached further and carefully plucked away the false memories, leaving only the memory of the lies he had been told, removing all of their power over him.  Finally, the residue of the images in his mind faded, faded, faded, until they were like the hills of Asgard seen at twilight through mist. 

Everything went white, then refocused, and he found himself on the floor of his receiving chamber, Mother holding both of his hands in hers, while Thor’s strong arms encircled his waist from behind.

Exhausted, utterly drained, mind finally quiet, he collapsed back into Thor’s strong arms.  His brother lifted him and settled him into a chair.  Every muscle relaxed.  He felt utterly incapable of movement.  He let himself drift for a moment, feeling emptied, barely there, unreal.  Frigga and Thor were speaking, their voices lacking meaning, washing over him like a tide, receding, flowing again.  Comforting in their familiarity, their concern.  Their love.

Then Mother was kneeling by his side.  “Think of a door.  The tallest you can think of.”  Frigga’s voice was far away.  Kind.  Insistent.  Obediently he pictured the door to the mountain refuge.  “Behind the door are the memories that cause you the most pain.  When you are ready, open the door, as slowly or as swiftly as you desire.  Remember this: he cannot hurt you here and now.  Remember this:  all your memories are available to you at need and you will always be able to think of what you need in the moment.  Remember this:  to defeat him you must be able to think and plan without the fear he gave you overcoming your mind and taking away your present reality.  Remember this:  I have taken nothing from you and hidden nothing from you.  Remember this:  I love you, son, more than I can ever say.”

She kept talking, her voice low, soothing.  She stroked his forehead, ran his hand over his hair.  He dozed, then fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.


	23. Sjá at ráði (adopt a plan, resolve)

Loki woke, still in his chair, to find Mother seated in another chair next to his.  She was looking into a golden mirror, but set it down when she saw his eyes were open and smiled at him.

He blinked and sat up.  He looked around for Thor, but he wasn’t there.

“He has gone to the Council chambers.”

“Is Father back?”  He was suddenly wide awake.

“No.  He is still on Vanaheim.  The Hunt is going quite well for them.”  She gestured to the mirror she was holding and he realized she had been scrying.  “I wished to speak with you alone.”

He looked at her expectantly, considering their situation.  His mind felt more clear than it had been since before Thor’s coronation, but physically he felt an underlying weariness. 

Frigga was watching him closely.  “It will take you some time to recover your full strength.  You were grievously hurt, sorely injured both in body and spirit, and your body and spirit need time to adjust to the return of your magic.  Do not rush it.  You must rest.”

“And how am I to do that, with what awaits us?”

“There are ways and there is a small amount of time, from what you say.  Given that the Titan is still at an enormous distance away, and given that the Tesseract is on Asgard, and that sources of power to jump across such vast distances are vanishingly rare, we can assume we have some time to make preparations.  Without a direct portal it will take the Titan some dozens of years to reach the Nine.”

“We don’t know that.  Something may change; he may find another type of portal.”

“We can plan for that as well.  If only Heimdall could See that far.  And, of course, if we could trust him to ask him.  So I must rely on scrying, in looking further than I have ever thought to attempt.  It never occurred to me there might be need to search further, and I will need to do much work to learn how to do so,” Frigga said. 

He picked up the mirror, gazed at it.  “This is a skill I never had talent for.  Would that I did.  I might have made fewer mistakes.”

“Son, you are by far the most powerful seiðrmauer.  No one can have all the talents.”

He dipped his head once, then took a moment to study the contrast of his blue hand against the gold of the mirror’s handle.  He ran his right hand over his left one, rubbing absently, remembering the moment on Jotunheim when everything had changed.

His hands slowly clenched into fists.  He uncurled them again and looked at Frigga.  “Why, if he made me look Aesir, could he not make me look more like both of you?” he asked softly.

Frigga responded gently, “Your appearance was your choice, not his.  You chose to become Aesir.  You changed in his arms.  Yes, he was able to reverse your shapeshifting spell at your judgment; he is strong in the ways of such things.  But it was your choice, always, to look as you did.”

Loki began tracing one of the lines on his skin with a fingertip.  He looked up at her, baffled, anguished.  “Why… would I want such a thing?  To look so different from you?”

She leaned over to caress his face.  “Loki, I know so much of your heart, but there are mysteries you yourself must solve.”

He shook his head.  “I am still this thing, underneath it all.”

“Do not call yourself such.  You have the choice to be whoever you want to be.  You have the heritage of two Realms to choose from.  Remember, we were not always at war with the Jötnar, and those stories I tried to keep from your ears, those tales of monstrosity, flared up in response to the hostilities.  Before that, Aesir and Jötnar were occasional allies, occasional rivals, but if we were ever true enemies before it has been lost in antiquity.  But Laufey…”  She shook her head slightly.  “He was ambitious and sought greater power for himself, to be equal with my husband.  And that Odin could not permit.” 

He’d wanted to be equal with Thor.  Could he ever let go of that desire?  He gave her a bitter smile.  “No.  I know now, your husband could not have permitted such a thing.”

She began turning one of her rings around and around.  “Son.  You have the whole wide universe to learn from.”  She went silent and stared down at her hands for a moment.  She lifted her head again and he flinched against the guilt in her eyes. “I am so, so sorry that I did not have the courage to speak to you of your birth many years ago.  I regret it, more than any words I might speak could tell.  But I never said those words.  I kept them from you, because of his command and not of my own desire.  Yet, I had a choice and that is my burden.”

“Do you still care what your husband has to say?”

“ ** _I_** am still his subject.” She met his gaze, and he understood she knew he understood the levels of her meanings.

“I,” he said, “am not his subject.  I--” He felt a wild sense of freedom, as if his blue skin had suddenly liberated him from all the parts of his life he had hated, as if he was already soaring free and clear over the palace, over the mountains, leaving Asgard far behind--“am not his son.  I am the discarded prince of another realm; he has merely revealed the truth to all.  I was nothing but a tafl piece to him, on the board to be sacrificed to protect the king.  He is nothing to me.”

“You are everything to me.”  There was a fierce type of sadness in her face.  “And my husband did not always feel so, about you.  He grew to love you.”

He tilted his head at her skeptically.  “Mother.  I would like to believe your words, but I cannot.”

“Nevertheless, they are true.  As far as they go.  As you know, his love for you was always less than his love for Thor.  And then when you – and Thor, as well –  revealed you were capable of slaughtering your enemies without thought – an impulse he, too, has shared, and acted upon in Bor’s time – he saw in you both the thing he most tries to avoid seeing in himself.”

“Eir told me…”  Her gaze sharpened as he paused to consider what to say and what to conceal.  “..of how Bor deceived your husband into killing his best friend.”

She nodded.  “I heard that story, as well, and believe it to be true.  He felt he had no choice.  Loyalty to his father, to his King, outweighed his regard for his friend.”

“How could he believe Bor again, after learning the lie?”

“How indeed?” she replied.  “that was before my time here, as well.  I know not his heart in this matter.  We have never spoken of it.  It is simply a tale, come to my ears, that all who know of it swear it is true.”

“Thor was not ready for kingship,” he said.  “Did he not know that?”

She shifted uncomfortably.  “In protecting myself, in taking his strength, I find I unwittingly forced that decision upon him.”

“If he had not harmed you as he did – ”

“And back it goes, through the generations.”  Her lips thinned.  “You are right that he sacrificed you for political purposes.”  She paused, swallowed.  “Son, I do not excuse your actions regarding the Jötnar, letting them into the Vault.  Asgardians died in our defense.” 

He lowered his head in shame, his motives for that action, so long a spur to everything he did and thought, so long a tool twisted by the Titan to distort his memories and thinking.  _Your ambition is little and full of childish need._   The Other had said that, and he had been enraged at those words, dismissing them as a lie.  Now he recognized their truth, and wondered at The Other’s motives to say this thing, using it as yet another weapon against him. This, he thought, was The Other’s own cruel demeaning attack upon him, intended to force him to confront yet again how little he mattered to anyone’s life, a reminder that his only importance to them was to fulfill every command his new father, the Titan, laid upon him. 

“I – regret what I did,” he managed roughly, and found that he meant it, and was not using those words as a manipulative lie to gain her forgiveness.

He could see Frigga knew he spoke the truth.  “You should have been laid with heavy weregild, labor and imprisonment for a span of time, to repay those you wronged.”  He nodded, but remained silent.  “However, my husband was unjust, to both you and to your brother.  I thought his sentence of Thor too severe.  I thought yours unconscionable.  In my judgment, you paid in full for your deeds by everything that happened to you before you arrived in Midgard.  More than full.” 

He swallowed, looked down.  The memories were still there.  Bearable.  Near enough to inform him; distant enough not to slash him to ribbons.

“It is behind us now.  Let us move forward.”  She went silent again, but he did not look up to meet her gaze.  “Loki,” she said, after the pause became awkward.  “I will say this again, as many times as it takes, until you believe it.  You are my son.  Thor is blood, but in every way that counts you are more my son than he.  Mine.  And Odin’s son, as well.  You have my magic and more than my knowledge of magic.  You have my husband’s guile.  I have always seen it in you – you could be a great King.”

_A great King_.  He wanted to believe her.  But something inside him whispered, _and you, a failure at everything._

It spoke in the Titan’s voice.  He shook his head, pushing the words back, and breathed out a sigh as the memory dimmed and the pain receded. 

Frigga’s expression changed to one of concern.  “You do not have to do it on your own,” she said, and he wondered, not for the first time, of the power of mothers to read minds. 

He nodded but couldn’t find the words.  Lying was easy.  Honesty – much harder.

She nodded at what she saw in his face.  “We must speak of Midgard,” she said.  “While you slept, Thor and I had a long conversation.  Now I will suggest these ideas to you, to take and use as you will, or not.” 

“Why Midgard?”  He didn’t even want to think of the place again.  “It is a backwater.”

“It is a crossroads and currently holds the Mind Stone, the Time Stone, and the Reality Stone.”  She contemplated him for a moment.  “Did you truly wish to be king?”

“Yes.  No.”  She raised her eyebrows, and he took a moment to think.  “Not that way.”

“Would you now?”

“Part of me, yes,” he said.  “But to be King of a primitive Realm, not even a protectorate, such as Vanaheim – what glory is there in that?  A second son, King of a third rate Realm, one so ignorant they had forgotten our existence until Thor was banished there?”

“And yet, you could have made something of it.”

He gave her a slow smile.  “I had ideas of other things I might do on Midgard, had I the freedom.”

“That did not involve using Chitauri to slaughter their inhabitants and lay waste to their great cities?”

“No,” he said.  “None of that.  You know how much I dislike all the wasted time and effort that goes into war.  There are so many better things to do.”

“And yet war it is we must wage, against your enemies, and ours.  I will tell you what I thought and spoke of to Thor.”  She contemplated the mirror she had lain upon the table, her gaze going distant for a moment.  She nodded, then looked up, and he took her lack of mentioning what she’d seen as an indication Odin was still far away.  “Midgard, a land of no king.”

“It has many petty kings and warlords.  Many nobles.”

“Are there favorable alliances that can be made in whatever way serves us best?”

“Yes.  It would take some time to consolidate power, however.  They choose their rulers in strange ways.  In some territories, all the populace gets a say.  Some do not have kings at all, but for those who do he or she is merely a figurehead for others with greater power.”

She shook her head, baffled.  “They are strange indeed.”

“In others of their ‘countries,’ they have rulers who do not claim the title of king but rule with greater authority than those who do.”

She nodded.  “True power,” she said contemplatively, “is not always in the hands that claim it.  And it is not always held forever.  There are events beyond the power of kings to control, seemingly faithful allies who choose other paths, and enemies greater and lesser.  Midgardian lives change swiftly, and this gives us the opportunity to make the changes we need to save us all from the greater danger.  But we need not look just to opportunities on Midgard.  There are those in others of the Nine who have tales of their lives before Asgard claimed power over all, and there are those who derive inspiration from these tales.  I myself heard these stories, whispered to me as a child.”

“You never told me those tales,” he said.

She gave him a slow smile.  “Not yet.  But I will.  Now, to Midgard.  It is such a chaotic realm. You should do well there.  It might even be enjoyable.” She gave him an indulgent smile.

“Perhaps,” he said, and he was smiling too.  “There is much to learn, much to understand.  Some among them are more powerful than kings.  There is one named Stark, whose reach and power encircles their Realm.”

“Thor has told me of him.  The armorer, whose work is as fine as any of Asgard, fresh off the forge, as yet unspelled.  Imagine,” her lips curled into a smile, “this Stark’s work, bespelled far beyond its current capabilities.  Some mortals know magic.  Could he, perhaps, become one?”

He contemplated it for a second, then shook his head.  “He has not the lifespan to learn.”

Her smile widened.  She held out both her hands, palms up, fingers cupped.  A golden wash of seiðr sparked and glowed and faded, revealing three golden Apples.  “A gift, for those you wish to bestow it upon.  More, if needed.”

He returned her smile and held out his hands.  The Apples appeared on his palms, then he vanished them into his pocket dimension.

“As for magic users,” Frigga went on, “there are mortal wizards on Midgard plying their craft in secret.”

His eyes widened.  “I had not known that.  I never thought to consider it.  I – had no true thoughts of my own, other than my goals,” and he felt the darkness at the edges of his defenses.  “ _His_ goal,” he said bitterly.

She met his gaze, held it.  He drew in a breath, another, and his thoughts settled back into calm again.

She raised her hands, put her palms together, then spread them apart and as her fingers parted an image stretched out into the air showing Midgard’s turning globe.  “There,” she said, and an area high in the mountains of the eastern part of a vast northern continent glowed brightly.  “The magic weavers and the Time Stone are here.  And Mind, here.”  The image continued its revolution and a light glowed in the western part of the same continent.   “And Reality is here.”  The globe turned and a crimson light gleamed in the lower part of an island off the coast of the same continent.  She expanded the images one at a time to focus on the areas in question.  He studied each carefully, then closed his eyes and focused his thoughts on Midgard.  Once there, when his powers were fully restored, their energies would call to him like a beacon.

He opened his eyes and smiled at her.  She returned it, a confident smile, one expressing her faith in him and her determination they would succeed.

“Go among them.  Take other guises for a handful of years.   Their lives are short.  And so are their memories.  A handful of years, and those there now will die and their children will replace them.  Then when they have forgotten their fear of you, resume your own appearance if you like.  Or be whatever you wish to be.”

“You understand them well.  In a small span of years they forget their history, or try to interpret the fragments that are left and come up with fantastic tales.”  He snorted.  “You would not believe the stories they tell of us.  Apparently I am Sleipnir’s mother.”

Her eyes widened.  She started to speak, then shook her head.  “Perhaps you can tell me those tales some day, when this is all over.  But for now – go to Midgard.  They have much to offer.  Yes, in years past we paid them visits and played entertaining games with them.  They could be amusing.  But they are growing very clever and have learned magicks of their own, and we should treat them as any other realm.  Thor learned among them.  You were always more clever than he; you always learned so much more.  Learn from them what they can teach you.  And if you should decide to rule,” she tilted her head, and he saw and recognized it: her clear pride in him, her trust and confidence – “Be a wise king, my son.”  Her lips stretched in a wide, cunning smile, and he felt his own mouth mirror the expression. 

Plan after plan began racing through his mind.  “They have the potential to become as Asgardians.  Thor has told you of the one among them who rivals the strength and perhaps the lifespan of any of us.  This was done by means of potions they ill understood.”

“The soldier, yes.  ‘Rogers.’”

“Not only him.  The woman, the Spider, is also one such. I understand there are others.  And the green beast is a failed attempt, yet his host will live many centuries.”  The intersection between potions and spells flared in his mind; a complex design woven with mortal DNA and magecraft.  “It should be possible to create many more of them.  An army to stand against the Titan.”

“We would need to do this in utmost secrecy.  There are – how many of them?”

“Seven billion, more or less.  Many die in their wars and famines, and of course of old age and mortal diseases.  Many are born.”

“Seven.  Billion.”  She took a breath.  “The mortals breed so quickly!”  She shook her head.  “They would have to be carefully selected, those who will form the footsoldiers of your army against the Titan.  Grant all of the mortals our powers and our lifespans and their Realm could not contain them.  They would spill out into the universe and surpass our power quickly and come to rule us.  We need to be careful how we do this.”

“It’s not just those we could enhance.  There are other mortals – they call them mutants – they have many strange powers.  I gave them no thought while on Midgard as they are not allied with any of their governments, but now – they hold much promise.  There are two groups, and many unaligned.  I would need to speak truly to their kings, to both their telepath and to his chief adversary.  Lies would not help me there.”  His eyes glittered with the excitement of discovery as he contemplated studying their DNA, the roots of their powers. 

“What of their kingdoms?  Join them together or rip them asunder?”

“There are complications.  There are mortals that control the wealth of their world, and with that wealth they control those in power.  Stark is one such.  He controls a great deal of their wealth, and the power it carries.  So do others.  Their kingdoms may topple, but those who hold the reins of the wealth that encompasses their globe hold the true power.  And then there are those organizations that respect no king or no land and seek to transcend them, though they may pay lip service to such.  I allowed myself to be captured by one such group.  It is a corrupt organization, riddled with traitors who have already subverted it.  I learned much from one in my control.”  He contemplated SHIELD and the World Security Council for a moment. “It would be easy enough to co-opt them, turn them to the goal we desire.  They will all need to unite against an external enemy.  Perhaps I can give them one to strengthen their will to ally together before the true danger arrives.” 

She was smiling, eyes full of her own plans. 

“There is one problem, easily solved,” Loki went on.  “They have been poisoning their Realm for some time and the temperature increases year by year.  Unchecked, it will destroy their lives equally as effectively as the Titan.”

She frowned.  “That would take great spellcrafting to reverse.”

“I think not. Stark himself, and many others, are working on solutions to prevent further damage. As for the damage that has already been done, I will need the Casket. It will take a few years to learn the subtleties of working with it to learn to harness its power with absolute precision. I could then use it to slowly reverse the temperature increase back to an ideal climate.”

She nodded. “When the time is right, I will bring the Casket to you and leave an illusion in its place.” 

“But what of Thor?  What does he think of these plans?”

“He is reluctant, but he understands that a chaotic Realm without a king to protect it is vulnerable to any passing enemy and could easily become a pawn and a weapon to strike at our hearts.  I have told him of the previous incursion of the Kree and how they have meddled with their genetic structure, and thus they, too, could conceivably pose a threat to Asgard and the Nine.  Thor heard me out, but he does not yet understand the uses of deception and trickery.  He formerly thought that the only ways realms were conquered was by force, such as when Asgard conquered Vanaheim.  You well know how long that bloody war went on, and you know how I was part of the political process.  A marriage price, a pawn in that game of war and peace.  Now Thor has rejected the concept of violent conquest, yet he has no true philosophy to replace it with, only a scattering of new beliefs.”

“Yet he will be king.”

“Yes.  Thor will be king.  But he has time yet to learn, and learn he will and must, from what is happening now.” 

He doubted Thor would accept this with any kind of grace, and was uncomfortably certain Thor might well ruin everything with indiscretion.  “We must work in utmost secrecy.  Can Thor maintain silence?  What if the old man learns of any of this?”

“I will make Thor understand.  I will tell him what he needs to know of what we speak of now, and everything he must do to bring it to fruition.  My husband cannot learn of the Titan.  He thinks himself omnipotent.  He thinks he could defeat anyone, including the Mad Titan.  If he learns of this and makes an attempt to go to war in the old way, full of pride in his own invincibility, therein lies our downfall.  Not just Asgard.  All.”   She lowered her voice, despite the security of her wards against any who would listen.  “He will not be among us for long.  And there should be enough time after his death to prepare Asgard for Thanos.”  Tentative hope showed in her eyes.  “And then, when all is done, we can truly be a family again.”

Darkness crossed his face, the fear, held at bay, threatened to rise again.  “Are you sure your spell will be effective?”

She reached out again.  “I have every confidence we will succeed.  And more than that.”  A ferocious light shone in her eyes.  “I know you still fear, Loki, but I tell you, the Titan will pay for what he did to you in full measure!   I so swear it, by the Nine and by the Norns and by the whole wide universe!”  The room crackled like lightning under the force of her seiðr.

He rose, lifted his arms to the naked power as it flashed around him and died away.  They met and held each other in a tight embrace. 

“Here is what we must do to affect your escape,” she said, and he listened as she spoke, then told her his choice of destination.

“Now,” she said, “I have gifts for you, to help you restore your strength while you rest in Midgardian ice.” 

She handed him an embroidered pouch.  He opened it and took out six small stone cubes, each marked with runes, each of them containing power.  He touched them one at a time, feeling the power she had placed into each of them:  _Fehu_ for abundance and creation, _Uruz_ for freedom and tenacity, _Raidho_ for making the correct move, _Kenaz_ for the creation of desired reality, _Gebo_ for success in dealings with others, _Wunjo_ for the recognition of worth. 

He smiled brightly, gathered them back into the pouch and made it disappear.  “Thank you, Mother, for your gifts.  For everything.”

She pressed a kiss to his cheek.  He hugged her close for a moment, then let her go.

 “I must go now,” she said.  “Time is short, and you and Thor need to speak.  I will keep watch and let you know of what I see and hear.”

She left the room.  He sat quietly in his chair and began making plans.


	24. Flótti (Flight)

Thor entered the room bare moments later and halted a few paces inside.  The light shining in from the balcony highlighted the gold of his hair, his commanding stance.  He appeared as he always did, the golden heir apparent, beloved of Asgard, favored of the Norns. 

Loki rose and in the altered perspective he saw his brother clearly.  Thor seemed fractured and remade – his posture full of determination, his eyes full of sorrow, his face marked by an impotent rage.

They stood for a long moment staring at each other, and the few feet between them felt to Loki like the terrifying depths of the Void.  There his brother stood, the brother he had known all his life, now so very changed by his new knowledge that it seemed as if time had jumped forward a century or more and left them strangers.  Before his return in chains to Asgard, all that had ever been between them – the companionship, the unconditional love of childhood, and, later, as young men consumed by both lust and love – all of this history tainted and soured by Thor’s arrogance and obliviousness and Loki’s own gnawing envy fraying the bonds between them until the final thread snapped during their violent confrontation in the observatory and the Bifrost.   

Now, they had begun rebuilding – if only Loki could acknowledge it.  Loki looked inside himself and could not identify what he was feeling for Thor.  They were about to part ways.  This might be the last time he would ever see his brother again.  A superficial calm had claimed his mind, like a lake under a windless sky with a massive storm beginning to brew at some further distance. 

He gave Thor a brief nod.  “You know what Mother and I discussed.”  Loki kept his voice calm and cool.

“I do.”  Thor didn’t try to hide his distress.

“And will you permit it?” he added softly, calmly, with no trace of bitterness, even as he knew his words might hold knives.  Even though he knew he needed no one’s permission now.  “Permit me to return to Midgard?”  He waited for Thor’s rage, still feeling the need to test and taunt his brother, even now.

Thor didn’t take the challenge.  Instead, he appeared weary.  He shook his head, aborted the gesture, then stepped forward and clasped Loki’s forearms.  Loki relaxed and returned the gesture, so familiar and yet, after all they had been through, as startling as finding a familiar face in a land full of strangers. 

Thor looked at him earnestly.  “You go now as protector, not destroyer.  Loki.  I will never purge those images from my mind of what the Titan did to you – ” Loki flinched, and Thor released his forearms and held up one hand.  “Nor do I wish to, for you cannot continue to bear this burden alone, not as long as I have breath and strength to share it with you.”

Loki wanted to accept those words, wanted to embrace them, but the barbed wire snares around his tongue had him spitting out, “Do not pity me.”

Thor watched him levelly.  “You know I do not, for you have survived and returned to us, bloodied and scarred by battle, but ready to again take the field.” 

“And if we lose this battle?  This war?”  Loki’s throat felt scratched and ragged.  Despair was beckoning again, hopelessness waiting just beyond, and he shoved back against the door that would keep that darkness from entering his mind.

“We will be victorious.” Thor’s voice sounded exactly as it always did the instant before he leapt into action, Mjolnir at the fore, never the slightest room for doubt in his brother’s one-track mind.

“You always say that.”  Loki filled his voice with all of his long-suffering forbearance for fools, but a kind of gentleness wormed its way into his tone, and he saw by Thor’s expression that his brother detected the nuance.

“And I’m always right.”  Thor tried for his old swaggering self-confidence, but Loki heard something harder, more complicated, in his voice.  He remembered the anguish on Thor’s face when he had told him Odin was dead, remembered the shock on Thor’s face when Odin had threatened their mother, and understood that Thor had already learned failure and defeat.

Some sour emotion twisted in him at the memory of his own cruel words.  That, too, he pushed back.  The only thing that mattered was what they would do now.  “Thor, whatever happens, you must protect mother.”

“Do you even doubt for a moment I will do so?”

Could anything ever defeat the determination in Thor to prevail against all odds?  That, Loki realized with a sudden burst of hope, was why they might prevail.  “No,” Loki said.

Thor’s face went still.  “Brother.  I find myself without words to say the things I feel.  Oh yes,” a smile touched his lips at Loki’s wide-eyed expression, “mock me if you must, but we must part soon and I will say this before that time.  I love you.”  He stepped forward and made as if to embrace him, to lean their foreheads together.

This, they did not need: another tie to tear at them when it was broken.  Loki did not return the embrace, but gently pushed him away and tried for another lie.  “We are no longer children.”  He paused for a second, and then added one more word as a gift to soften his statement.  “Brother.”

“No.  We are not.”  Thor’s face was a map of pain.  Once, Loki would have taken joy in seeing that expression.  Now he felt stabbed to his core.   Thor studied Loki’s face and Loki felt as if he had suddenly become transparent.  “Then let us speak like men, in honesty.  I say it again.  I love you.”

He couldn’t bear this.  Not now, not when they were so soon to be parted.  Better to leave these words unspoken.  “You try to make everything simple.  But nothing is ever simple.”

“And you, always the one to take the winding path, to explore endless caverns in search of legends.”

There was a fiery glint in Thor’s eyes, and Loki remembered how very easy it was to manipulate his brother, even though part of him cried out against his intended result.  “And you, always the one to destroy the obstacles in your path.”

Rage flared in Thor’s eyes.  “And you, always the one to look for obstacles for sport!”  Thor growled and slammed his fist against the circular table, the one that had effortlessly held Mjolnir just days before.  It shattered into splinters.  Thor stared at the fragments, then back at Loki. 

Loki glanced down at the shattered remnants of the table, at the broken pieces scattered across the stone floor.   He gave Thor a wry, deceptive smile.  “I wasn’t planning on using that again anyway.”

Thor swallowed audibly, and tears shone brightly in his intensely blue eyes.  “Loki.  Let us not do this again.  Let us find a new path.  Please, brother.”

_Please, brother._   He’d used those words to trick Thor on the Bifrost, but they burrowed deep into his mind and clawed forth memories. 

Himself, dazed and bloodied, ripped by the shards of the broken mirror.  Injured – dying – barely conscious but still aware of Thor’s sturdy arms as his brother carried him to his bed, that strong grasp giving him a fragment of comfort through the pain.

Thor using Mjolnir to help Mother create the spell that had filled his chamber with that lifesaving frigid air. 

Countless times as children and young men, when his brother’s strong arms had been all that had held him back from disaster. 

The knowledge that Thor had always been there to protect him.

Thor’s persistence, his dogged need to understand why Loki had done what he did on Midgard, had triggered pure fury in Loki at the time.  Shame burst in him at the thought of the insults he had hurled at his brother. 

Thor’s utterly unexpected insights, his uncompromising belief that there was much Loki had not spoken of.  Loki’s belated understanding that Thor, at least, still clung to his memories of what they had meant to each other when they were young. 

Thor’s insistence – his blind faith – that there had been a monster behind the monster… He had reared back at Thor’s words – better to be the monster than confront his own memories –

Their brief embrace by the stream when he had almost reached out until memories caught him and dragged him back down into that pit of rage and despair.

Every muscle had gone tense as he finally realized the truth:  Thor was right.  They needed to find a new path.

They had had so much.

Until he had let go. 

And kept letting go. 

When Loki said nothing, Thor spoke again, evidently divining from whatever Loki’s face revealed that he still had a chance to break through that wall.  “When Father banished me to earth I was forced to learn the dangers of my arrogance and pride.  From my mortal weakness I learned much.  It appears I keep needing to remember that lesson.  I am sorry, brother.  And I love you still.”

Loki blinked away tears that were threatening to fall, then suddenly something fell apart inside him and he realized he no longer wanted to let go.  That he wanted to hold.  That he wanted to keep.  

The memory of his betrayal flooded in, and words were pouring out of his mouth before he could restrain them.  “I am sorry, so very sorry for what I did and said, for telling you father was dead.  For all of it!  I reveled in my cruelty and now those words are like knives I have used to pierce my own heart.”

Thor listened to this speech in astonishment, his open expression showing remembered pain, remembered anger, and for a moment Loki feared that by reawakening these memories he had reawakened Thor’s rage against him.  Then those expressions vanished from Thor’s face, replaced by an urgent need to convince.  “Brother, I forgive you.  Do you forgive me?”

“Of course,” he managed, by habit making it sound sincere, then, startled, he realized he was not lying.  Not to himself anymore, and not to Thor.  “But, brother.  We will part soon.  Why strengthen the ties between us now?”

“Would I could go with you!” Thor said, an edge of thunder in his voice. 

“Would you, brother?”  And he suddenly was overcome by a long-held, hopeless fantasy – that there could be an escape for him.  His voice softened.  “Were things different, no dread fate threatening the lives of so many, just me, escaping Asgard?  Would you forsake your future, your kingship, your home, and come with me?”

Thor gave him a sudden, sunny smile.  “Ah, brother.  I remember this game.  You were so much better than I, imagining other lives for ourselves, free from everything.  I wish there was some way to change all that we caused and all that befell us.”  His smile softened, his eyes brightened.  “Shall we play your game again?  Where will you go?”

Loki remembered all the times and places he had told Thor his imaginings:  Them, lying together in a secluded meadow, in a valley on a high mountain, on Alfheim or Vanaheim, in all the places they had adventured and enjoyed each other’s bodies, while he had spun fantastical tales of other lives they might lead, as themselves or in disguise, out adventuring on unknown worlds.  Oh, the elaborate tales he had told, stitched together from bits of lore and old tales and traveler’s legends of worlds beyond the Nine. 

He hadn’t known, then, of the nightmarish dangers that lay beyond their known worlds.

He closed his eyes briefly, shutting the door against memories, knowing it would open to his touch when he needed it.  “I would go wherever Yggdrasil’s branches take me,” he began, and smiled at Thor’s rapt gaze.  “I would have no plans, except to see what the wide universe holds.”

“We will have many adventures.  I will go with you.  It matters not where.”  Thor looked at him with utter sincerity, for one moment caught in the fantasies of their past.

Loki looked at him assessingly.  “Would you give up your entire life?  Would you willingly become _nithing_ to come with me?”

Thor blanched at the word.  “I – “ He stopped, and his expression hardened.  “My own father has made himself _nithing_ in what he has done to Mother and to you.  Everything I thought I knew, I question.”  He reached out for Mjolnir and placed his hand on it.  “Yes, if you asked it, I would come with you.  To save you, I – ”

Loki grabbed his hand, pulled it back from the hammer.  “Say nothing more.  Make no vows it would tear you apart to keep or to be forsworn.  This is no game, Thor, much as we both wish it.  You cannot go with me.  We have different destinies.  You will be king of Asgard.”

“I no longer desire what I once wanted with all my heart.”  A look crossed Thor’s face that Loki once would have rejoiced to see: disillusionment and the pain of loss.  “What I have learned about Father I cannot forget, but what I have learned of the dangers that face us, I must stand and fight.  But you are so clever.  Surely there is a way we can do this together?”

“Would it could be so,” Loki said.  “But mother has planned wisely and well.  You cannot help me in what I will do on Midgard.  I must leave here soon, before the old man returns, or else I die.  Your place is here.  To protect her.  And to become king, for she assures me that time will come soon.”

Thor nodded, but his shoulders slumped, as if he were already bearing the weight of all of Asgard and the burden was proving too heavy.  “And you?  King of a world which has none?”

“For a time, at least.”  For all the intricate plans Loki had begun formulating from Mother’s advice combined with ideas of his own, when he imagined confronting the Titan there was nothing but darkness in his mind.  “I have no plans beyond the preparation for war,” he stated flatly.

“Then plan for the future past that, when we are victorious.”  Loki was shaking his head, and Thor set his hands on Loki’s shoulders.  “For I have not found you again just to lose you.” 

For a moment Loki tried to escape the purity and depth of emotion in Thor’s eyes, a love that held no secrets, plotted no schemes, planned no games.  He sucked in a breath.  “You are a fool.” Sentiment overcame him, and something darker, harder, fiercer.  “I am a fool.”  He didn’t think.  He moved.  He closed the gap between them until barely a hand’s breadth separated them.  When Thor started to move Loki held him back with a hand to Thor’s formal burgundy coat. 

Did he need to be cautious?  He remembered how Thor had carried him back to his room when he’d gone mad and ran into the mirror, but that was when Odin had bespelled him to be sure his touch harmed no one.  They had touched each other many times during these past few nightmarish days.  But now that his seiðr had been restored, did it still hold true?  His touch did not harm Mother, but was that because her seiðr was more than equal to his?  Would his touch burn Thor?

“What is wrong?” Thor asked.

“I’m afraid my touch will hurt you,” Loki confessed.

“Loki,” Thor said with a gentle smile, “Did I not do this just moments ago?” And grasped Loki’s forearms.

“You are right.  But…” Loki shook him off.  “Does that power reside in Jötnar hands alone?  That is how they form their weapons.”  He huffed in frustration.  “I don’t know these things, Thor, and there’s no one here I can ask.”  He hesitated, looked down.  “How do I know I won’t lose control?”

“I don’t know either,” Thor confessed.  “But it is easy to learn the answer.  Go ahead,” he added when Loki hesitated.

Testing it, Loki trailed the back of one black-nailed finger in a tentative touch to Thor’s jawline, snatching it away instantly. Thor’s eyes widened.  Worried, Loki examined Thor’s face, and saw nothing unusual in the beard or the skin beneath.

Thor kept his gaze on Loki’s as he touched Thor again, exploring with one finger the drag of Thor’s beard.  The sensations were strange, as if he had never touched Thor before.  Textures felt different in this body. He ghosted the backs of his fingers along the heated skin above the beardline, trying not to react to the contrast of his blue skin against Thor’s white.  Thor started at the touch, and Loki dropped his hand.  He stepped back, suddenly alarmed, though there was no trace of a mark on Thor’s skin.

Thor reached for his hand but even though Thor’s skin was unmarked, he hesitated.

Then took it, still startled by the contrast of Thor’s heated skin with his cold hand. 

It didn’t hurt him and there was no sign it was hurting Thor.  He stepped closer.  And when Thor reached out his other arm and settled it around his naked back, the rough texture of Thor’s coat feeling like heated cloth, he hesitated, analyzing the strange sensation.  Thor didn’t attempt to pull him closer, but kept watching him, concerned and uncertain what to do.

They had all touched him in the days before now – Mother, Thor, even Eir, but his memories of what that had felt like were blurred.  Now everything was sharp, in focus.  Now he felt well, but tremendously unsure of his own body. 

One thing he knew:  his touch was not harming his brother.  He took that last step forward and pressed himself against Thor, who responded by throwing his other arm around Loki and holding him close.  Thor’s coat scratched against his bare chest, but he ignored that sensation and tangled his fingers in Thor’s golden hair.  He pressed his mouth against Thor’s who, after one startled moment, opened his lips.  Loki kept his mouth shut, feeling the impossible heat of him, and pulled his head back slightly.

And saw the shining gold of Thor’s hair threading through his blue fingers.

Thor was breathing hard, face flushed, and Loki felt Thor’s cock straining through his clothing.  He closed his eyes and pushed forward, Thor thrust back, and they were rutting against each other. 

He stopped and stepped back, his body tingling with pleasure, and that too felt different, and he couldn’t understand exactly how.  Aroused, needing, yes.  He looked down at Thor’s tented trousers, at his own obvious erection, barely concealed by the light breeches he wore.  He met Thor’s eyes.  For a moment they stared at each other.

Thor touched his hand.  “Tell me what you want.” 

Loki held up one hand to stop him from saying or doing anything else.  Still needing further proof that Thor truly wanted him as he was, he concentrated, finding the space inside his mind that permitted _change._   White washed over him and he was suddenly in Aesir form again.  “Do you want me as this?”  Just as quickly, he shifted back to his Jötnar skin.  “Or **_this_**?”

For just a second Thor stood there looking at him out of those ridiculously honest eyes, his face, as always, free of any possibility of deceit or guile.  “I want **you,** ” he said, and Loki felt it, seeing his brother as if this past year had never intervened, as if they could truly go back, erase it all, and go forward again, making everything new. 

Thor opened his arms but didn’t move toward him, just stood there, waiting for Loki to take the next step. 

Loki considered Thor, who in the past had so often taken and seldom given.  Thor, now waiting for his answer, his move, his choice. 

Thor, who had changed for the better, while he had let go and drowned in the darkness.

He drew in a breath, savoring the chill air.  Then he raised his hands, sketched a complicated gesture, and slowly the temperature began to rise.  He assessed his physical condition at each tiny increment. 

“What are you doing?” Thor asked, but Loki was still inwardly focused and barely heard his words.  He smiled in satisfaction.  His body was adapting automatically, his magic protecting itself from the heat.  He could feel the power of the ice within his body, its killing force restrained, controlled, held in abeyance until its force was consciously needed.

Then, it was done.  The temperature in his room was back to its usual Aesir level.  Thor was frowning, trying to understand.  “Are you sure – ” he began.

“You can take off your clothes now,” Loki said with an easily-assumed dirty grin.  He peeled off his breeches.

Thor’s eyes went wide, and an instant later his burgundy coat was on the floor.  The rest of Thor’s clothes followed, his movements over-hasty in joining Loki in his naked state.  Loki watched Thor’s every move, as acres of heavily-muscled, creamy-pale skin were exposed piece by piece, until Thor stood nude before him, half-hard, pupils blown huge. 

Loki met Thor’s eyes, remembering those fantasies of their childhood, remembered the pleasure they had shared as young men.   Was he ready for this?  It was not possible to go back.  But he could step forward into the sheltering embrace of Thor’s huge arms.  He could close his eyes, forget what he looked like, and just feel.

He stepped forward and wound his arms tightly around his brother’s back.  Skin pressed to skin, the contact shockingly warm, but he didn’t flinch.  Thor’s hands were immediately all over him, but for a moment he simply stood, face pressed to Thor’s neck breathing in the heady scent of Thor, something of leather and lightning and sweat, permitting himself a comfort he had long since scorned.  He inhaled deeply, opened his eyes, lifted his head, and when he saw Thor’s mouth was open he claimed it with his own.

They kissed, tenderly, and then with passion.  Loki permitted the entrance of Thor’s hot tongue into his cool mouth.  His eyes slid shut as he savored every sensation:  Thor’s hard huge body, the way the muscles in Thor’s back felt beneath his exploring hands, the hard press of Thor’s cock against his lower belly, his own stiffening in response. 

Thor ended the kiss but left his mouth open in a smile and they each inhaled each other’s breath.  Thor’s impossibly blue eyes, his face so close Loki could see every individual beard hair, were intoxicating.  He raised one hand and Thor didn’t flinch as he rested one blue finger along Thor’s cheekbone.  He traced the bone, then Thor’s lips.  Thor opened his mouth, sucked it in, and Loki jerked his hips forward in response to the intense desire flooding him from that simple fiery touch.

Thor took another shuddering breath and allowed Loki’s finger to escape his mouth.  “Is my skin too hot for you?”

It almost was, the feeling of being too close to a raging fire, but he didn’t answer.  He said instead, “Do you feel I will freeze you?” Loki took a tiny step backward, already doubting, though his body was urging him to press against, to rub, to seek entrance into the other’s body.  “I will change forms; it will be easier.”

“No,” Thor said, clearly as certain about this as he was ever certain about anything.  “I want you in whatever form you take.”

“Oh, Thor, do not challenge my imagination.”  Loki gave him a wicked grin as possibilities flashed through his imagination.

Thor barked a laugh.  “I should know by now how far your mind out-travels mine.  But,” his expression became serious again, “If this is possible, I wish to do it. Your skin is as cool as a river-washed stone, but your mouth, when I tasted it, held more warmth.  You will not harm me with your touch; I am certain of it.”

“Oaf, I do believe you,” Loki said with a smirk that disappeared into lust as Thor pressed his large hand against Loki’s cock.  “Let’s be careful about this,” he gasped as Thor’s fingers curled around his length.  Pleasure shot through him as those hot fingers explored –   “Let’s – ”

Too much, too hot, too fast, too quickly.  Heart racing, he pushed Thor’s hand gently away.

“Are you all right?” Thor asked, a trace of alarm in his voice.  “We don’t have to – “

“No,” Loki gasped.  “No.  Let me – ” Before, the only bodily sensation he’d paid attention to was the torment of that overpowering heat, and once that hellish nightmare had been relieved he had done his best not to think about his Jötunn body at all.  But now, now that he was hale, and could return to Aesir form – why not do it?  Why not disregard Thor’s preference and simply change back?

“Loki,” Thor said, and it was both a plea and a denial.  Loki looked up for one instant and shook his head.  He tentatively began stroking Thor’s massively muscled thighs, trailing blue fingers along that pale skin.  He studied Thor’s skin carefully as his fingers skimmed down his thigh, constantly reassuring himself, despite reason, that his touch left no marks.   With one careful touch after another he explored Thor’s hips, buttocks, waist, and then finally dared to touch Thor’s cock.

Thor made a strangled sound and Loki snatched his hands away and looked at Thor’s swollen cock for any trace of damage. 

“Go on,” Thor managed, and Loki looked up.  “You haven’t hurt me.  Keep touching me – keep – “

Loki lightly fingered Thor’s cock.  Thor began thrusting into the air, tiny, jerky motions of his hips, and one large hand landed on Loki’s head, Thor’s fingers tangling in his shorter hair.  Thor groaned at the delicate touch, cock demanding more, but when Thor tugged at Loki’s hair and Loki jerked back Thor snatched his hands away and deliberately moved them behind his back.  When Loki looked up, Thor’s eyes were pleading, but he said nothing and made no attempt to hurry Loki along.

He was going to do this.  He was going to make it work.  Loki curled his fingers and with one tiny spell made the palm of his hand slick.  He began pulling and stroking Thor’s shaft.  The heat of Thor’s skin was uncomfortable but not unbearable.  Thor made inarticulate sounds, and those sounds fed his own demanding arousal.  Loki eased Thor’s foreskin down then rubbed the cockhead with his thumb, smearing the liquid he found there, rubbing his palm against it.  He looked up again.  Thor’s eyes were focused on his hands.  Thor’s cock was a fiery red, so very hot it was difficult to keep touching it. 

What would it feel like in his mouth?  From all those times before, his tongue knew the taste of it, his teeth the texture, his lips and throat the bulk.  But now?  Would it burn him?

He knelt, grabbed Thor’s hips and held on tight.  He opened his mouth and took just the head into his mouth and Thor choked out a groan.  So hot!  But not unbearable.  Not quite.  He felt Thor’s hands move to his shoulders and then Thor managed to drop his hands down again. 

“So good,” Thor murmured and thrust deeper into Loki’s mouth and Loki choked on the heated thickness. 

Thor pulled back, his cock slipping out of Loki’s mouth.  He was panting and his skin was flushed and shining with sweat.  “Change back,” he managed.

“No,” Loki said stubbornly.  He wrapped his fingers around Thor’s cock, parted his lips, opened his mouth wide ready for the heat, and sucked Thor all the way in, used his tongue against the underside, familiar with what Thor liked best. 

Thor groaned, deep and needy, and thrust, thrust again, Loki accommodating his every move.  “Stop,” Thor managed raggedly, but Loki didn’t.  He could feel Thor’s uncontrolled movements, knew he was almost there.  He sucked hard and deep and swallowed Thor’s length.  Thor spilled into his mouth with a roar.

Gasping, slick with sweat, Thor dropped down next to Loki.  His chest was heaving, his eyes stunned before he managed to focus them again.  Loki’s cock was throbbing.  He reached down to curl his fingers around the hard shaft, stroking rapidly.  Thor watched for a moment, and Loki knew he saw, as Loki had seen, that Jötnar markings extended this far.  Thor grabbed Loki’s wrist and he let go of his cock, despite his body’s demand for release.  Thor wrapped his fingers around Loki’s cock and he hissed from the intense pleasure and the intense heat.

Thor let go and he whined in need and frustration.  “Change back,” Thor said again.  “I want you to enjoy this.”

“Don’t,” Loki said through gritted teeth, “treat me like I’m breakable.  We have gone this far,” Loki hissed.  “I will not.  Change.  Back.  DO it!”

“Then show me how you want it,” Thor said.  “Any way you like.”

Images of everything he had ever wanted to do filled his mind as a current of need flooded his entire body.  His cock hardened further and with a roar of his own he sprang to his feet, pulled Thor up and pushed him back against the nearest wall.  He flattened his hands against the wall, leaning into it, keeping space between their bodies, and stared into Thor’s eyes, a smile curling one edge of his mouth.  “I would have you so many ways.  Your mouth.  Your ass.  I will think of those ways as I…”  He took that final step, bringing their bodies in contact skin to skin, clawing his fingers into Thor’s shoulders, accepting Thor’s heat against his cold skin.  He rutted against Thor’s cock while claiming his mouth in a brutal kiss. 

Thor grabbed his waist, dug in his fingers, pressing hard, as, already roused again he met Loki’s movements, their cocks sliding together easily in the slick Loki had created.  Loki kept up an intense pace, biting at Thor’s neck and collarbone, while Thor blindly grabbed at every part of Loki’s body he could reach.  Loki felt it coming, the overpowering surge, lighting up brain and body.  The intense pleasure peaked; Loki made an incoherent sound, clinging tightly to Thor as he came.  Thor broke next, roaring out his pleasure, his copious spill smearing everywhere. 

Once their breathing slowed and they’d gained their feet Loki magicked them clean – and how good it was, to be able to do that simple cantrip!   

He gave Thor a delighted smile and Thor beamed in return and hugged him close.  Loki returned the embrace, but let go quickly at the touch of all that hot skin.

“I love you,” Thor said, his face filled with sentiment.

_Those words._   Loki hesitated, and saw Thor’s smile fade.  “Thor, I last said those words to you while planning your betrayal.  Will you ever believe them from me again?”

“Say them and find out,” Thor said challengingly, and there was something of a cocky look in his expression. 

Loki felt his face go blank.  Every expression, every word he might say – how could he speak honestly without seeming false?  He looked down at the floor instead, and when he spoke his voice was small and ragged.  “Then, Thor.  Brother.  I do love you.”

Thor laughed shakily.  Loki looked up, and then they were in each other’s arms again.

After a few moments Loki stepped back again and gave Thor an appraising look.  Thor began to smile – then stopped when Loki stepped further back and he saw what was happening.

Transformations were sometimes easy – the forms he had frequently practiced were simply like sliding from one element into another, earth to water, arms to fins.  Some, done for the first time, were shocking and the adjustment initially difficult, even painful.  But this – Jötnar to Aesir and back again – was as simple as summoning clothing.  He stood quite still while the transformation took place, the change swift and near instantaneous, far quicker than what the Casket could manage.  Then he gave Thor a wicked smile.  “Now, Thor, remember the things I said I _wanted_ to do to you?  Let’s do them now.”

Thor glanced down, up again, gave him a filthy grin, and followed him to the bedroom.

 

Some time later, resting and talking of nothing in particular, a low chiming sound caught their attention.

They were instantly on their feet, Loki magicking them fully clothed, for they both knew well what that sound meant.  Mother had arrived and was waiting for Loki in his receiving room and the last thing either of them wanted was for her to discover the secret they had hidden from her for centuries.

Frigga was standing near the door when they entered, her posture calm and regal, her eyes filled with warning.  “Thor, leave now.  The All-Father has returned and would speak to you.  I am going to him now.”  Her image flickered for a moment, then solidified again.

Loki tensed, and he laid one hand on Thor’s arm.  Thor was scowling ferociously.

Frigga trained her gaze on Thor.  “Remember, you are his subject and his son and you must hold your tongue.  Everything we do depends on your ability to follow his orders – or at least seem to.”

Thor jerked his head in a nod, then turned to Loki and clasped his forearm with a strong hand.  “Be well, brother.” 

“And you, brother,” Loki said, returning the gesture.  “Keep Mother safe.” 

“Always,” Thor swore.  And then he was out the door.

Frigga’s illusion remained, and she gave Loki an encouraging smile.

He smiled back, and it suddenly felt natural to smile again. 

“I will visit you, when I can,” she said.  She threw intangible arms around him, and though he could feel nothing of her touch he felt everything of her love. 

She stepped back and her smile was full of her pride and love for him, and he felt it fill him with strength as water on parched ground, as the ice they had brought him to save his life.

“Be careful, Mother,” he said fiercely.  “Promise to let me know if you are in danger.  I will find help and bring it to you.”

“I promise,” she said, and the illusion of a great sword appeared in her hand.  “And I will help you, as I can.”

Her image dissolved slowly.  The last thing he saw was her bright eyes and her proud smile.

Loki took one last look around his chambers and didn’t look back.  There was nothing there that he needed.  He was no longer Odinson. Never Laufeyson. And from this moment on he was no longer of Asgard.

Never a Child of the Titan.

He was Loki, son of no man, and he would twist that burn of shame into pride.  He would make being fatherless into a thing of glory. 

He was Loki, son of Frigga.  He would take her name and when the time was right and all was prepared even the Titan and all those he feared would come to dread his name. 

The instant before they died.

He turned to the balcony, feeling the strength of the magickal wards keeping him prisoner arcing across the open space. 

Those wards couldn’t hold him now.  A shark smile curved his lips as the best and most ironic way to defeat Odin’s magic occurred to him.

He slipped into Jötunn form, raised his hand.  A giant ice spear shot out.  He infused it with _escape/unlock_ magic and hurled it over the balustrade.  The wards popped into golden visibility, blackened and shattered as what was left of the ice rattled across the balcony floor.

Then he raised his arms up, his clothing vanishing around him.  Heated air caressed his naked skin for only a moment. 

The change was swift and easy.  Feathers sprouted, bones hollowed, shifted, changed, as he became that magpie form he had taken so long ago.  He took to the air, glorying in his strong wings, then he soared out the open doorway and over the balcony and into the sky beyond.


	25. Við ísa-brot (When the ice breaks up in the spring)

RAWK!!!!!

Raven shadows raced ahead of him.  Loki banked and made a hard right, flying as fast as he could toward the Bifrost.  Behind and above him Odin’s ravens, strong powerful wings beating the air, were gaining on him, all the while shrieking their alarm.

He cursed – of course Odin would have set a second guard on him, this one in the form of those accursed birds. 

Shrieking and cawing, one dove from above him while the other plummeted past and below then rocketed back up toward him, missing him by an inch as he banked out of the way. 

Twisting, turning, flapping, he evaded both of them again and again, thrown off course several times by the turbulence caused by their powerful wings.  One of them struck the tip of one wing, screeching loudly inches from his head.  He tumbled and veered away.  Drawing on his regained seiðr, he put on a burst of near-impossible speed and pulled ahead quickly, but an instant later Odin’s own magick infused their bodies and he saw them rapidly gaining ground.

There – ahead!  Strong wings beating, he caught the updraft and soared higher and higher, and those below him turned into tiny specks.  Heart racing, lungs pumping, wings moving in a blur, he crossed the headland and sped along the Bifrost.  He heard a shout ahead of him, and there was Heimdall, running out of the observatory and charging along the bridge.  Wings working hard, he kept flying faster and faster towards the Observatory.  Several Einherjar had entered at the land end of the bridge and were racing toward Heimdall.  He arrowed down, Huginn and Muninn right behind him. 

As he landed and transformed into Aesir form he threw a dozen doubles along this stretch of the bridge, some running one way, some the other, the rest moving in quick circles.  Heimdall ran to join the illusioned fray and plowed right through several of his doubles before coming to a halt.  Loki didn’t pause for a second; he kept running flat out toward the Observatory.  The ravens, seeing through his doubles, plunged down, once again gaining ground. 

He could hear by the shouts and the sound of pounding feet that Heimdall and the Einherjar had turned and were racing after him.  He cast more doubles behind him and ran full out along the final stretch to the Observatory, breath coming hard, panic rearing up.  He was weakening, his magick nearly drained, his doubles were almost certainly flickering, and time was running out.

He crossed through the doorway and frantically reached for the controls, fumbling to set his destination.  He could feel Mother’s spell activating with his touch, the one that would conceal his true destination and lead any who tried to follow him to the surface of a dead moon.

Heimdall and the Einherjar were rapidly nearing the doorway.  Now the ravens were entering, flying straight toward him.  He grabbed Heimdall’s sword and swung it.  The ravens ducked and shrieked, the flapping of their wings monstrously loud in the enclosed space.  Black feathers fluttered through the air.  He thrust the sword home and the Bifrost roared open.  He raced the final few feet to the Bifrost, but one final glance at the controls told him he’d made a mistake.

Too late to change it.  His feet touched the Bifrost and he was caught helplessly in its energy, the image of the destination setting seared into his vision.  Almost correct. 

Almost.

 

The Bifrost opened in mid-air and Loki fell free, the Bifrost energy snapping off behind him.  Very far below him he saw black sea water with islands of ice drifting along its currents. 

Rapidly growing larger – closer –

Air ripped past him, emptying his lungs.  He flailed, panic seizing his mind.  Falling – **falling** – FALLING!

Can’t breathe—

The black water was approaching, faster and faster and –

Impact!  He hit the water –

Bones breaking – snapping – shattering –

He plummeted beneath the surface –

Sinking down – down – down –

Into frigid water.  Stunned, in shock, he gasped –

Ice water burned into his lungs like dozens of knives stabbing him from inside – he flailed and the pain of broken bones shrieking – screaming impossible –

Eyes wide open, he sank further into blackness.  Light disappeared.  Something changed – pain receded – he slowed –

Stopped.

Strange things bumped against him then retreated.  He felt himself slowly begin to rise.  Some movement was still possible.  Just fingertips at first, then hands.  Rising.  Rising.  Barely aware.  There was light, and then there was more light, dazzling bright.

His head broke the surface.  Choking and coughing, pain like a white explosion seized his body around every broken bone as he heaved up all the seawater he had inhaled.  Finally catching his breath he opened his eyes and blinked against the glare.

His breathing eased.  He floated in the water for a long time, noticing without interest that his skin had turned blue.  He drifted past ice floes, carried wherever the currents took him, aware on some level of his body repairing itself:  bones knitting, muscles and tendons and ligaments becoming whole again, his mind and his body both adrift. 

Light faded from the sky.  Disappeared.  Stars came out.  Retreated again.  The sun rose again, vanished again.

Still he drifted, letting the water take him where it would, threading him through narrow passages in pack ice.  He didn’t think at all, just existed.

When the sun returned again there was a huge ice cliff directly several hundred yards away and the pack ice around him was so thick that the water could no longer carry him forward.

He roused, finally, and changed position in the water so he could look directly ahead.

A waterfall had sprung from the middle of the ice cliff.  He watched as he saw a loosening in the material, and then suddenly there was a cracking sound as the ice cliff leaned, broke apart, and fell in a thunderous roaring collapse into the black water.  It exploded into a mass of ice chunks hurtling through the air.  The ocean reared an instant later, lifting him up, hurling him down, pulling him under.  Struggling against the power of the wave’s passing he forced his way back to the surface.

The water calmed, and he looked around.  The remnants of the ice cliff had separated from the land behind it.  A rocky, snow-covered mountain was now visible.  Land’s end was a sharp, icy drop down to the intensely blue water.  Sunlight glittered on the ice and water, nearly blinding him.

He began to swim between the floes heading toward his intended goal:  this land, this southernmost of Midgard’s continents.  At least the miscalculation he had made in the Bifrost’s settings had brought him down relatively near the land – and not underneath the surface of the ocean.   Only a small number of mortals dwelt here, studying this frozen land, and then only in a few scattered places.  He would be safe here until he completely recovered his magick.

He reached shore and began climbing up the ice face, the frozen spikes he projected from his hands allowing him to go hand over hand until he reached the top.  He pulled himself over and stood.  The mountain jutted ahead of him, ice and snow clinging to its flanks.  He looked around in all directions, listening to the wind and the sounds of the ocean and the crackling and grumbling of the ice floes he had left behind.  He was entirely alone.

It didn’t take long to reach where the land began rising again.  He began climbing, and as time passed, he admired all the colors of the snow and ice, the blues and the whites and all their pale and deep shades.   Up and up he went, losing track of time, eventually finding his way through a pass that led him to the other side.  The pass widened, revealing a vast white plain below.  Exhausted, he made his way back down the mountain, to the place Mother would expect to find him once he had recovered his strength. 

Once he reached the plain he sat crosslegged on the ice and reached into his pocket universe.  Pulling out the pouch containing the six small charms Frigga had given him, he placed them carefully in the ice alongside him. 

Then he lay down on the ice.  When his bare skin contacted that welcoming surface he relaxed into it, enjoying its soothing, calming embrace.  He closed his eyes.  The currents of the power the charms contained reached toward him, their power and the primal power of the ice already flowing into him, slowly restoring his energies. 

He could also sense the danger beneath parts of this continent’s ice shelf, could sense the warm currents of water undercutting the ice, the slow-moving catastrophe threatening this realm. 

That time was not yet.  He needed to take time the time to heal now.

He cast a concealment spell around himself, supplementing the one Mother had already cast upon him, triggered at the moment he had touched Heimdall’s sword.  These spells would be strong enough to protect him until he released them.  Or some outside force tore them from him.  However, he was certain Mother’s spell would hold.  Heimdall was doubtless looking for him.  Odin had most certainly sent warriors searching for him and he smiled at the thought of their long and fruitless quests as they followed the misdirection Mother had placed on the Bifrost controls.  He wondered how long it would take for them to give up the search.

He slowed his breathing.  He closed his eyes.  He opened his awareness fully to the ice, feeling its ancient power.  The power within himself, of the winters of Jotunheim, equally ancient, meet its Midgardian counterpart and together they gave him strength.

 

He stayed aware, on a minimal level.  Days passed, then weeks, and the ice covering him grew thick.  Days become longer until the sun ruled the world, and then became shorter again until the light vanished into an endless night.  And, day by day, his power slowly seeped back into him, steady, calming, healing, strengthening.

When the days lengthened again, somewhere in the haze between dream and waking, he saw Mother.  She brushed away the snow that had covered the thick wall of ice protectively encasing him.  The ice, which had become occluded, was suddenly as transparent as colorless glass.  She knelt down on the surface, and her face was as clear as if it had been magnified.

She rested a gloved hand on the transparent barrier between them, looking into his unblinking eyes.  She began speaking.  He heard the words, and absorbed them.  He understood nothing but would remember everything. 

She pressed both hands to the ice as if she were touching his face.  Then she pressed a gleaming gold cylinder into the ice, just next to his right hand.  The ice opened to it, accepted it, closed around it.

Her lips moved.  _I love you, son,_ he saw.  She stepped back, kept her gaze on him, and vanished.  He kept staring at the place she had been, feeling a sense of absolute peace, losing himself to dreams.

A day came when the sun did not set.  When what had been many days became one single day he began to awake.  Little by little his awareness increased as the ice melted around him.  Finally, he was free of it.  He slowly stood up, becoming truly awake, truly alert.  He looked down to the place where he had rested for so long and saw the ice that had nourished him, strengthened him and healed him had frozen over again.

He stretched, moved, took in deep breaths.  Humming lines of power filled his every cell, the energy strongest where his sire’s markings flowed across his skin.  He felt better than he ever had in this skin, his magick fully restored, his body fully healed.  He was amused to find his hair had grown back while he had been sleeping and was now longer than it had ever been, falling inches below his shoulders.

He reached into the ice where Frigga had placed her gift and the ice gave him the cylinder.  He opened it and found it filled with rolled up parchments filled with runes, full of secrets.  About where she had seen the Titan, and the pathway through the stars he appeared to be following.  Still far away.  But approaching.

He touched those memories, examined them, and found, though clear, they had become free of pain.  He could examine them.  Think.  Plan.

He read more of Mother’s writings.  About her love for him.  About Thor’s love for him.  About how she had watched over him and saw how well the ice was healing him.  About all the things she had seen while scrying Midgard’s inhabitants.  Advice and suggestions on what to do and how to obtain their loyalty and form his new army. 

She wrote to him of the King in guarded terms, of how his attentions had gone elsewhere, the search for Loki abandoned. 

Loki had many plans of his own.  Time to begin weaving them together.

For one sharp moment he wished they could all be together to fight, to save the Nine together.  But his words to Thor had been true:  Loki’s path lay here while Thor’s lay back on Asgard.  For now.  For the future…

He repacked the cylinder, gestured it into his pocket dimension, then surveyed the icy plain.  A wind came up, lifting his hair.  He breathed in deeply, enjoying its frigid touch, and looked out over the land.  Sunlight struck every shade of white and blue in the ice that capped the earth, lying thick above the rock bones of the land beneath. 

A smile curved his lips.  Time to leave this place.  He needed a ride, and not just any ride would do.

He needed to attract a certain type of attention.  He had a lot to do on Midgard, and time was short.  There were only a small handful of years left before the Titan would reach the Nine, and he needed to be ready for him.

He turned and hummed to himself, considering.  And then he raised his hands.

He felt himself filled with profligate power, and the more he used, the more he had.  He sent out spears, then sheets, then walls of ice as he built a palace.  Corridors led to false doors.  An intricate maze formed around him, long snaking corridors leading to blank walls, with one winding corridor leading to the central hall within.  He filled its walls with random scratching, a nonsense language he had invented on the spot.  He created fantastic statues of beasts from every realm and placed them in odd corners.

He created a throne for himself and built it up and added even more height to the walls of the ice palace.  He did not tire, but reveled for the first time in the ice he commanded; in the heritage he’d denied, in the power he had rejected.  He let it fill him now, and laughed as gleaming spires and minarets and towers rose in riotous abandon, shining white above the endless whiteness of Antarctica, thrown together haphazardly, their patterns taken at random from every realm.  The structure grew larger and larger around him.   He thought of Asgard’s throne room, and built and built, and, his energy still increasing, built ever more. 

Then he, at center of a labyrinth hidden inside the maze, climbed the ice and emerged into the sun and drank in the cold air.  He walked along the roofs and walkways of his creation, then leapt to the ground and studied his work.

Smiling, still filled with the sense of the power he wielded, he strode some distance away, then lay down upon the ice.  He let it embrace him until it covered him completely.  Then, he waited.

It didn’t take long.  A day, and then SHIELD’s aircraft came.  It soared and hovered and then found a place for itself and landed.  Tiny aircraft, no larger than birds, emerged.  He knew they were filled with mortal devices that captured moving or still images.  They circled and probed and entered and emerged from his creation.  Then people emerged from the aircraft.  They were dressed in black and were bristling with weaponry and technology.  They approached with caution, studying, talking into their devices, listening to other voices.  They made more pictures and ventured inside.

Presently, some emerged, their drones having led them unerringly to the empty center.  Why they needed to see for themselves he knew not.  A few headed back to the aircraft, and he, as invisible as the air, followed. 

Once on board, in the warm air these humans favored, still invisible he shifted back into his usual Aesir form, and settled in with a sigh of pleasure.  He was _himself_ again, for a time at least, with no one to know anything other, as easily adapted to heat as to cold.

Mother had told him, “The glamour is yours, not his. . . . . it was your choice, always, to look as you did.”

His choice.  Now, and always.  He knew he would choose many different forms in the coming years.  Once this craft landed and he had the chance to explore he’d choose his first persona – the first among many he was sure to assume.

He made his way to the ship’s control room.  Fury wasn’t there, which was a minor disappointment.  But Maria Hill was. 

They were there for another several hours until the mortals had their fill of measuring and photographing and testing his creation.  Finally, all the others returned to the aircraft and they made ready for flight. 

Now the beginnings of his plan could start.

He didn’t have much time.  Thanos would be here soon, and mortal lives were so very short.  All Thanos knew was destruction and death.  Loki would have to act quickly.

_I won’t be hiding on some barren moon.  I’ll be here, waiting for you.  And I’ll be ready._

There were so many variables on this complicated realm.  He’d take a little time to explore, to understand the complex web of their nations and their lords before choosing his first step, before finalizing his own plan.

And it wouldn’t be Thanos’ plan either, or The Other’s.  There were better ways, ways that did not involve warfare, death, and destruction.  Ones that involved willing allies as well as those who would be wholly motivated by self-interest.  And he could be a different person each time, adapting himself to each circumstance.

The foolish, destructive, wasteful plan for him to conquer Midgard had been doomed to failure from the beginning.  He’d known that and had argued for it.  Had seen his own freedom in its foolhardiness.  Sabotaged it every chance he got.  It had been his only route to escape, even if that had only meant his death.

And here he was, alive, and ready to prevail.

He thought of Frigga and Thor, his once and future family.  “I’ll do it for you.”  He contemplated the vastness of Midgard, the places he had once walked as a god, the places that had known him, the places where none had ever known him, and now, when all the world knew his name.  He would deny the Titan all these billions of lives.  “I’ll do it for all of you,” he promised.

When Thanos came, he would be ready.  But he was strong now.  And would only get stronger.

The Casket was only the beginning, but it would help heal this world.  The careless mortals relied too much on dirty technologies, resulting in a relentless climb in temperature that, if let unchecked, would destroy current life on this planet.  That wouldn’t suit his plans at all.  The Casket could stop the climb in temperature, and its carefully calibrated use could reverse the effect by just the right amount.  He’d have to decide what was optimal.  He had no wish to live on another Jotunheim.

And then there were the Stones, precious beyond anything else.  The Aether would be easy enough to acquire, lying, as it did, undiscovered for all these millenia.  The other two would require more planning.  And if Thanos, on the other side of the galaxy, had ever sensed them, they would all be in Loki's possession when he arrived.  Thor would bring the Tesseract, if Loki asked if of him. 

There were other objects.  The berserker staff.  And this Realm was littered with Kree technology, perhaps useful, and if not, there were things that needed to be destroyed.

Then there were the people he needed.

Stark would be first, he decided.  Stark walked a complicated path, and with the right words and inducements, Stark would understand what needed to be done.  Stark already knew the basics of the knowledge Loki would give him.  He pictured it now:  the persona he would change into to work with the metalsmith on advances in his technology.  With his knowledge and Stark’s empire to disseminate new technologies to the world, even more wealth and power would flow to Stark, and to him.

He would also need to meet with the soldier.  The formula should be easy enough to recreate.  There would be an army of super soldiers, by the time Thanos arrived.  And what about the green beast?  Banner had a lifespan to match the gods.  Perhaps more of those beasts, loyal to Loki, of course.

And earth’s mutants, with all their wild talents.  So many potential allies, if approached right.

He knew Thor would return to Midgard to visit his old friends – and to meet with him.  He would find a place suitable to receive him – a Midgardian palace.  And Mother?  How long would Odin live?  He already longed for their reunion.  And then?

Thor had changed.  Thor was different.  Thor would now make a worthy king. 

So many things he needed to do, and only a few years in which to do them.

He already knew the first thing he needed to do.  Barton had not been the only SHIELD agent who served him.  There was an infestation inside SHIELD.  Traitors, but possibly useful ones.  The other SHIELD agent he had turned to his service when he first arrived on Midgard had told him about the hidden layers in that organization.  They called themselves HYDRA. 

Useless information then.  Useful now.  He needed to get rid of distractions to his plan, and the earlier this was done, the better. 

He already knew what they were playing with.  The Mind Stone, set in the scepter.  He shuddered at the memory of how it had been used against him by Thanos.  He would not allow HYDRA’s possession of the scepter to stand.

Loki smiled as he went to stand beside Maria Hill.  Barton had told him what he knew of her.  Of her intelligence.  Of the rumors of her ambition. 

“SHIELD is riddled with traitors,” he whispered to Hill, but not in a way she could physically hear, just as he had done with Selvig before he had ever arrived on Midgard.  And, “You deserve to be head of SHIELD.”

She looked around herself for a moment, then shook her head.  She gave orders and the aircraft rose. 

Maria Hill would be a good leader of SHIELD.  And perhaps, sometime in the future, twenty or thirty years from now, Loki could assume yet another persona, and become her successor.

Loki, still standing beside her, watched the dark ocean slip beneath them then disappear as the aircraft ascended past clouds.

He didn’t know the vehicle’s destination.  It mattered not.  Any place on Midgard was as good as any other, and far better than any barren moon. 

He thought of Thor, of their parting, and had a sudden fierce longing to be with him again.

_Soon,_ he told himself.  _Soon._ There would be moments they could steal, before facing the coming war. 

And after that…

_Some do battle, others just do tricks,_ Thor had once said to him, and it still hurt, but in a distant way, like a bruise almost healed.  He had better memories now.  Thor had also said, _Brother, do you forgive me?_   The hurt in Thor’s eyes.  The love.  The need.  All mirrors of what he felt himself.

_At the end, Brother,_ he thought, _it is my tricks that will save us all._

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Cover Art] The Sound of Breaking Ice](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16747858) by [Knowmefirst](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Knowmefirst/pseuds/Knowmefirst)




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